


love exists in many forms

by Dialux



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (i certainly haven't), ...i mean they hate each other at first sight and are SO SALTY, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar won, Alternate Universe- Marco Polo, F/M, Gen, Identity Porn, Salty Teens, i mean kinda, it starts there and goes somewhere else entirely, this was a metric fuckton of joy to write you guys have no idea, you really don't need to have watched marco polo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-06 11:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 72,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8747941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: In which Alayne Arryn, only daughter of Jon Arryn, commits suicide after her father dies in a failed attempt at rebellion, and her handmaiden, Sansa Stone, pretends to be her when faced with death. Sansa arrives at King’s Landing and finds herself betrothed to Prince Jon Targaryen; but their relationship is complicated by old secrets, new loves, and treason.A Marco Polo AU that… takes the premise and runs in the opposite direction.





	1. philautia (self-love)

**Author's Note:**

> So this was totally inspired by this gifset: psdisposal.tumblr.com/post/148509522220/after-a-failed-attempt-to-rebel-against-king .
> 
> But this isn't a Marco Polo AU, because it takes that premise and runs very, very far from it- in point of fact, I'd say this is a mix of identity porn, salty teens, and political maneuvering.
> 
> The premise in this is that Rhaegar wins against Robert all those years ago but doesn't kill him; Jon Arryn never marries Lysa- he's instead happily married to Rowena Arryn, who gives birth to a daughter (Alayne Arryn) a year after the Rebellion. Sansa is a bastard born/raised in the Vale, so her last name is Stone. It's announced that Lyanna's pregnant- for the second time- and this infuriates Robert; he tries to rebel again. Jon Arryn dies a few weeks later, Rowena Arryn dies a fortnight after that of an illness, and Alayne Arryn commits suicide; Targaryen forces ride into the Eyrie the same day. 
> 
> Hopefully... that's it, and you guys enjoy!

****_ Goodbye,  _ was all the note read.

Sansa gaped at the letter for a long minute before spinning on one heel and running outwards- there were only a few places for a person to- to say goodbye from in the Eyrie, and only one that would be left unattended at the moment. Sansa took the stairs swiftly, racing down and hoping she wasn’t too late-

She skidded into the Moon Tower, just in time to see Alayne step onto the ledge before the window.

“Alayne,” she cried, hands going up, and Alayne paused; she turned slightly to look at Sansa, and there was only a furious, red-eyed sadness in her eyes. 

Sansa stepped forwards, numbly, and Alayne turned away. The window was narrow and small, but Alayne must have broken it- there were bloody shards surrounding the floor, shifting and scattering due to the wind. 

“Please,” begged Sansa, because she knew no life but this one. Because she could not bear to lose the most important person in her life, because she would just as surely die under another’s thumb. “Alayne-”

“I’ve nothing left,” replied Alayne, and forces her shoulders through the gap. 

_ You have me,  _ thought Sansa.  _ You have  _ me,  _ Alayne, am I not enough? _

Alayne did not look back. She stepped forward, graceful as always, as if she were simply stepping off a staircase- she stepped off of the Eyrie, and it was Sansa who dropped to her knees.

_ You are a bastard.  _

_ You will never be enough. _

She had been, once: Sansa had led Alayne away from this very window a fortnight previous, when they received news of Lord Arryn’s death. She’d been quicker, then, or perhaps just luckier. But nobody would care for what Sansa’d once done- they’d remember her failure  _ now,  _ and they’d call a quick death merciful.

But Sansa couldn’t move. Her feet wouldn’t get up. She could only stare at the empty window and wish Alayne back. The grief cut at her lungs like shredded diamonds. For a moment, she wondered if she’d died already: the pale, dark-haired bastard, taken in by Jon Arryn, dead of a bewildering sorrow. It was like a song. Like a particularly cruel, cold-edged tragedy.

“My lady!” A woman snapped, hurrying forwards. Sansa blinked, slowly, but before she could speak the lady’s face twisted in sympathy at the broken glass. “Oh, dear girl, what happened?”

“She- fell,” Sansa whispered. There were still no tears in her eyes. “I… I tried to stop her-”

“I’m sure you did,” the lady replied, hand warm on Sansa’s back. Then, voice shifting into something approximating hurried patience, she said, “But, my lady, there’s no  _ time.  _ Your- Lady Arryn will be given her sky burial tomorrow. And tonight you must speak to the Vale lords. Now come along.”

She chivvied Sansa along, and Sansa let her, too tired and numb to even hear her words beyond a faint buzzing in her ears. She was thankful, she supposed, that she wouldn’t be pushed out of the same window Alayne stepped off of, unceremonious as a bastard’s death ought to be.

It was only later, locked inside Alayne’s chambers and alone, that Sansa realized: nobody called bastards  _ my lady. _ And nobody would ask a bastard to speak to the Vale lords. 

_ They do not know who I am. _

Alayne had lost her life to a proud, defiant sort of grief. She’d decided what would happen when news of her father’s death came, but she’d remained for her mother’s sake. When Lady Rowena died in the early morning, Alayne, too, died- she only breathed for a little while longer. And with her ended the trueborn line of Arryn.

But Sansa wasn’t an Arryn. She did not know who she was, entirely; only that she was a bastard. Only that there was nothing left to her in these snow-shrouded mountains.

Sansa was a bastard. She was an Arryn raised, perhaps, but a Stone at heart. She could not imagine dying for grief, not here, not ever. There was always hope, if one was alive, wasn’t there? And there could only be darkness, if there was death.

_ They do not know who I am,  _ thought Sansa, and reached for the warm, blue-tinted furs of Alayne Arryn, of her oldest friend in the world.  _ So I will become whatever they want. _

…

Alayne had always been quiet.

A peculiar sort of quiet: proud, partially, but more than anything else, disdainful. She’d little patience for the favor lords attempted to curry from her father, even as a young girl, and absolutely no respect for those she named fools. Sansa’d been one of very few who hadn’t been sneered at and summarily dismissed when she was little, and both Lord and Lady Arryn had been so glad to see it that they’d immediately made her Alayne’s companion in everything, from lessons to meals to even sleeping.

The lessons were of great importance, now that Sansa was to become Alayne, because it was how she knew the names and titles and methods of addressing the nobility.

Sansa had no maids to do her hair, because Alayne had never kept any. First it had been Lady Rowena, braiding both their hairs; and when she fell too ill to do it regularly, it had been Sansa who’d done it for both of them- though Alayne’s mother had tried to do it for them at least some days.

So she dressed, quickly and quietly, taking the gowns that were at the back of the cupboard, meant for Alayne to grow into. But Sansa was taller than Alayne, even if she was slimmer, and to keep this charade she needed to look as noble as she could. It was simple enough to slide into the gown, and after that, she brushed and pinned her hair as elegantly as she could. 

“My lady?” The woman- Sansa recognized her as Anya Waynwood, now- called. “Are you ready?”

“Just a moment,” replied Sansa, and glanced at her reflection in the looking glass. There was something missing, there.

She picked up Alayne’s oldest piece of jewelry: a smooth blue stone, rounded with age and strung on a piece of string that was barely holding together. Her hands trembled as she looped it around her neck and tied it off.

Hopefully, Alayne would understand why Sansa did what she did. She’d always been forgiving to those she called her own, even if she was never particularly soft. And what use would Alayne, a dead corpse six hundred feet below, have for her furs or her jewelry?

_ Forgive me,  _ she thought, and firmed her jaw, and walked outside her room.

…

“What say you, Lady Alayne?”

Sansa looked at each of the lords assembled before her. Had Alayne been there, she would’ve sneered, would’ve lifted her pale nose into the air and twisted her lips. 

But Sansa wasn’t Alayne. 

She swallowed and stepped forwards, pressing her hands together, tight enough to whiten her knuckles.

“I am the last Arryn,” she said quietly. “And I have already lost so much: my father, to this war; my mother, to her grief.”  _ My dearest friend, to despair.  _ “The Vale has lost good men, my lords. We cannot comfort their widows or their children with more blood.” She nodded, slow and firm as an ocean’s implacable tide. “There must be an end to it somewhere, mustn’t there?”

“An end to what?” One of the younger lords asked impatiently.

Sansa remained coldly dignified. 

“An end to  _ vengeance,”  _ she replied. “An end to war, and blood, and loss. If King Rhaegar wishes me to go to King’s Landing, I shall. There is no use to be found in defying the Targaryens now.”

“Isn’t there? They killed your father!”

“Yes,” she murmured, heart pounding in her chest, as afraid as she’d ever been in her life. “And I will bend the knee, my lords, for the Targaryens have men we do not, gold we do not. I am no fool, to wage a war for revenge that we can only lose. I will not have more blood upon my hands.” She breathed in, stood taller, and looked the lords in the eye. “I will go south, my lords, as soon as is possible. I beg of you to ready the mules to lead me down the Eyrie.”

Sansa spoke nothing more for the rest of the meeting. Tears clogged her throat when she tried to open her mouth, and it was only a stark awareness of what failure meant that kept them from welling up in her eyes. Her body felt very cold, despite being in finer clothing than ever before- guilt, perhaps, circling around her and waiting for her to falter.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will some warmth into the tips of her fingers.

“My lady? Are you- alright?” A ruddy-cheeked girl asked, looking concerned. 

Sansa scraped up a smile. “Of course,” she murmured. “Though I’m afraid- I would like to visit my mother. Before the sky burial, I mean. And I don’t believe I’ll be of much use here any longer.”

“You’ve been very brave,” the girl agreed. “Nobody would dare to stop you, my lady, if you left. That you even came here surprised many people: we supposed you’d be too deep in mourning for your parents. Would you wish me to accompany you?”

_ You thought I’d be locked in my rooms, weeping. _

_ If I was Alayne-  _ she breathed deep, felt something catch deep in her chest.  _ If I was Alayne, I would be dead. I am not Alayne. I must forget her. _

“Yes,” she said, and rose; offered the girl her arm. “Please, tell me your name.”

“Jeyne,” said the girl, and they walked out quietly.

…

_ I am sorry,  _ Sansa thought, kneeling beside the white-pale corpse of Rowena Arryn.  _ I did not mean for this to happen. But I refuse to give up quietly- I have never been so soft-spined as Alayne. I do not know if I will die for this, but I know that I will live longer. I know that I shall always carry you with me. _

_ But I refuse to spend the rest of my life weeping. _

_ I am a Stone. _

She brushed a stray lock away from Lady Rowena’s face. It was as dark as Sansa’s own hair, and looked ugly against her papery skin. When she was young, Lady Rowena had gathered her to her chest and told her that there was nothing to fear from storms. She’d been kind, far kinder than any other lady would’ve been to a simple bastard- but there had yet been a distance between them.

Sansa would miss her, and she would miss Lord Arryn as well, but she missed them with the distant ache of far relations; not blood-kin. Not as she grieved for Alayne.

_ I am a Stone,  _ thought Sansa, kneeling and pressing a cold, dry-mouthed kiss to Lady Rowena’s cheek.  _ I am Sansa Stone, and if it is the bastard in me that gives me strength, then so be it. I will not be a candle they get to pinch out. I will be as undying as the stars themselves. _

_ I am a Stone, and I will be a bastard brave. _

…

She was still with Lady Rowena, gently braiding her hair into the tight knots that would be cut and burned the next morning, when there was a great commotion in the hall outside. Sansa frowned at the door. 

There were some courtesies to be observed in the funeral halls, and among them was absolute silence: when the great lords and ladies died, they were entombed in halls of dark, silent, star-edged marble. The quiet was only broken when they laid them out for the sky burials, with the oldest dirges. It was absolute blasphemy to break it.

“-my lord!” A woman shrieked, voice much closer, and Sansa stood, abruptly; a moment later, the door crashed against the far wall.

“My lady,” said a man, resplendent in Targaryen black and red. 

He bowed, a little; stiffly. And then he continued to speak, paying as much attention to the Vale’s sacred rituals as one might a particularly irritating gnat. Sansa bit her tongue before she could start shouting.

She might not have loved Lady Rowena, but she’d always had a great amount of respect for her. This- this  _ sacrilege-  _ was too great an insult for a woman who’d only ever been kind in her life.

There were pale, apologetic faces lining the door, watching Sansa carefully. How she reacted would determine so much more than just a simple daughter’s grief. Suddenly, she was aware of the power she had claimed, by slipping into this dress.

The man was still speaking. Sansa hadn’t bothered to pay attention before, and she certainly didn’t do so now. Tossing her braid over her shoulder, she stepped forwards and twisted her fingers in his sleeve, dragging him out of the room.

Speaking in the hallway wasn’t quite taboo, but it was frowned upon. Sansa couldn’t have cared less, at the moment.

“Who do you think you are?” She demanded, before, reflexively, biting her tongue; after a moment’s pause, she continued: “Has no one told you of our funeral rights? It is Lady Arryn dead there, in the death room. How dare you break her mourning silence?”

“My lady-”

Sansa swallowed, hard, when she saw the pity twist in his eyes. She clenched her hands, straightened her back until it was painfully stiff- what use had she for pity? Pity would not bring back her parents. Pity would not bring back Alayne.

_ You are Alayne. _

“If you ever do something like this again,” Sansa whispered, “I will have you thrown out the Moon Door. Do you understand me?”

The man recoiled. “Do you know who I am?”

“I do not care,” Sansa said, lips thinning into a white line. “I am Alayne of the House Arryn, last trueborn daughter of the Lord of the Vale, and I will not let any Targaryen warmonger disturb my mother’s death silence.” She inhaled, and remembered:  _ nobody would dare stop you.  _ “I beg you to remember that I was the sole voice speaking against war, my lord. And that the Vale only ever bent the knee to your dragons.” Head tilting, she asked, “Where are the dragons now, my lord?”

He flushed angrily. “How dare-”

_ They are dead. _

“The Vale is a part of your kingdom by choice,” she continued, unforgiving as the rising tide. “Remember that, the next time you decide to commit blasphemy inside these walls.”

Head held high, cheeks flushed with a rage pure and true, Sansa walked away.

…

They brushed Lady Rowena down with the oils and stinging soaps, cut away her braids and brushed the silk-soft fuzz that remained, wrapped her arms in moonflower vines and dragon’s breath stems. They crowned her with pale nightshade and carried her body out, wending along the slippery paths at the mountain summit until they reached a clearing.

Lady Rowena had been well-loved in the Vale. She was the daughter of a good man, and the wife of another, and she was known for her charity and her gentle nature. When news of her death arrived, more than a hundred women climbed the Giant’s Lance to bid her goodbye.

As her daughter and heir, it was Alayne’s right to begin the first song: the first verse always sung alone, the second a chorus.

Slowly, carefully, she began.

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy,” she began, and on the second line Anya Waynwood took up the song; by the end of it the clearing seemed to tremble with the high, plaintive notes.

…

Hours later, she stood in the High Hall and watched her men feast. Her hands didn’t quiver even a little, but it wasn’t triumph she tasted along her throat- it was grief, the sort that seemed too overwhelming to even consider swallowing.

Alayne would never get the burial her mother received.

It burned like a brand inside her chest, this truth. Sansa wondered how the lies could be so easy to accept, but the truth was so much more painful. She wondered if, when she left this place, it’d make things easier or harder, to be in a place that didn’t ache like a tomb.

“My lady,” said a man.

Sansa turned, and felt herself flinch inwardly; go stiff and cold, outwardly. It was the same Targaryen man from the death halls.

“Is there something you wish?”

“I wished to speak to you of your trip to King’s Landing,” he told her, ignoring the cool note in her voice with an ease that Sansa hated. “I will be accompanying you to the capital, my lady, and I believe it would be best if we set out as soon as possible. We cannot delay much longer before the rains come and make the roads nigh impassable.”

“We buried my mother only hours previous,” Sansa replied flatly. “My father’s bones haven’t even been offered back to me. We shall leave when I wish it, my lord, and not a moment before.”

He looked frustrated. 

_ Good,  _ thought Sansa, sharply, irritably. Let someone else feel half as helpless as she did, right now.

“Lady Alayne-”

“If you simply wish to repeat your old arguments, I’ve no desire to hear it.” She waved a dismissive hand and made to stride away.

“Take care, my lady,” snapped another man, stepping up to the Targaryen lord’s shoulders. “Have care of how you speak. Lord Jon-” Sansa flinched, slightly, at the name, “-is no mere lord. He is a prince born and bred, the second son of King Rhaegar Targaryen and her Grace Lyanna Stark, and you shall show him the respect due his station!”

Sansa felt her cheeks flush, at both the upbraiding and the attention that was being focused on them. The hall had started to stare somewhere between the man’s loud voice and his sharply pointed words.

...which hadn’t been insulting in the least. Damn the man. 

“I apologize for any disrespect offered to you,” Sansa said finally, inclining her head towards Jon Targaryen. “However, I stand beside my words. We shall leave when I see fit, and not a moment before.” Seized with a sudden, reckless idea, she went on: “And I say that I shall not leave the Eyrie until my father is laid to rest in our fashion.”

“I-” Jon blinked, looking startled, and Sansa took full, shameless advantage of his silence to curtsy, excruciatingly polite, and leave.

…

It’d been absolutely stupid of her to say that.

Sansa knew it as soon as she said it. The only question was towards the magnitude of her mistake- and even that, she was sure, was immense. Gods, if she could’ve just kept her mouth  _ shut,  _ there wouldn’t have been any issue.

Which all boiled down to the fact that she had no  _ choice.  _ She didn’t want to start a war, and thus she could either swallow her pride or gamble with everyone’s lives by defying the King. Sansa bit her tongue and headed towards Prince Jon’s study.

Her pride wasn’t worth anyone’s life, much less an entire kingdom’s.

It was with her hand upon the door, almost knocking, when she heard voices inside. Sansa let her hand fall and instead pressed an ear to the door, unwillingly curious about this new Targaryen prince and his thoughts.

“These customs are quaint,” said one man. “Though foolish, overall. Just set fire to their bones, I say. Quicker funeral- and longer time spent drinking to their memory.”

“Aye, because you’ve never lived in the Vale,” another said dryly.

“Fuck you, Targaryen,” said the first man. Then, after a pause: “And I didn’t. Spent most of the time playing in the mud, and by the time the funerals started I was in the Crownlands saving your sorry arse.” He coughed slightly. “We should leave soon. The snows’ll cover the passes easily enough, and then we’ll be stuck.”

“You know why we haven’t,” Jon said.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed.

“Because of that Arryn girl? Jon, she’s mad with grief. She isn’t being reasonable.”

“I know that,” Jon said wearily. “But Father doesn’t want to start another war. It’s because of Viserys’ that we’re here at all, and- well. The least I can do is let her have some illusion of power, isn’t it? Once we get to King’s Landing, she’ll be eaten alive.”

_ Illusion of power?  _ Sansa’s hands clenched into fists.  _ Illusion of power! I’ll show him what an  _ illusion  _ of power looks like! _

But back in her rooms, Sansa saw the silent, shadowed reminders of her oldest friend- and for all that she’d like to remain here, she couldn’t wait to live in a place that didn’t consist entirely of loss. If Jon Targaryen thought she’d be eaten alive in King’s Landing, she’d prove to him exactly how wrong he was.

She sat, and gazed out of a window she’d looked out of a thousand times before, and then Sansa began to write.

…

They traipsed down the Giant’s Lance within two days’ time.

Jon was-  _ confused  _ was a good word for it, though bewildered might be better. One day, Alayne Arryn sneered at him and issued a challenge; the next, she announced in the High Hall that she was going to leave as soon as possible.

When he told her his father’s instructions, she didn’t even seem the slightest bit fazed. Her blue eyes measured him and just as easily dismissed him.

“I’ve no need for maids on the road anyhow,” she said, level as a blade. “I am thankful for your father’s worry, Your Grace. Though I daresay it is unwarranted.” 

“One does not tell a king that his interests are unwarranted,” Jon replied.

He’d meant it in a joking fashion; Lady Alayne clearly didn’t see it in the same manner. Her features hardened, minutely, and Jon realized that she took his words for a rebuke. Before he could dissuade her, she’d curtsied and walked away.

And- well.

All that might have been contradictory enough, but  _ this  _ outstripped everything else by far.

“She doing it again?” Edd asked. When Jon sent him a look, he arched an eyebrow. “Don’t go pretending like you’re any less confused than me. A lesser man would’ve thought her doing witchy things, you know that. Burning rosemary- gods, if we get off this mountain without being snowed in, I’ll put a sprig of rosemary on the Stranger’s altar myself.”

“She’s a lady,” Jon said mildly.

“A half-mad one, at that. Look at her!”

Jon turned.

Alayne had taken to wearing heavy black cloaks, and they made her pale face seem even paler; in the misty mornings, she looked almost ghostly. Her hands cupped a small wreath of rosemary that she’d spent the whole day weaving; and, as Jon watched, she began to light the edges- the smoke traveled up, framing her face in gentle grey. She kept burning the wreath slowly, carefully, never letting the flame truly catch, only blacken the rosemary sprigs. When all she held was an ashy circlet, she crumbled it between her fingers and wiped the smears on the grass, and then walked away.

She did this every night. 

Nobody knew  _ why. _

Jon knew some called her a witch; they thought she prayed for mercy from the king. Others thought she prayed for vengeance for those who’d killed her father. Others named her a grief-mad lady and pitied her.

But if Edd thought it’d gone far enough to bring it to Jon’s attention, then it meant he could no longer ignore it. It was one thing for a girl to play at children’s games, but another thing altogether for a lady to do it- and as much as Jon might personally feel sorry for her, he had to be his father’s son here.

“My lady,” he said, following her to her tent. When Alayne looked back at him, features as if carved from stone, he felt himself flush awkwardly. Abruptly, he wished Aegon were there in his place. Surely he wouldn’t have found this half so uncomfortable. “I- hope you aren’t finding the trip too difficult.”

“I daresay it is your men who find it difficult,” she said coolly.

Jon’s flush deepened. It was true: Alayne found it ridiculously easy to climb down the mountain, scaling it with an ease that put both Jon and his men to shame. That afternoon, they’d found her at the second waycastle, awaiting them with the same expression she’d worn since Edd had corrected her about Jon’s true lineage- a sort of polite disdain.

“Still.” He coughed. “‘Tis the first time you’ve left the Eyrie, isn’t it? It must be a change.”

“I’ve been to the Gates of the Moon,” she replied. Then, eyes sharp on his face, “Was there something you needed, my lord?”

“The wreaths that you burn- they’re discomfiting my men. If you could perhaps refrain-”

“I cannot,” Alayne interrupted.

Jon frowned thunderously. For all that he wasn’t raised a Targaryen prince, he was unused to people deliberately refusing to follow his orders. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Alayne placed the decanter that she held on the table decisively, and then turned to face him fully, eyes pale and gleaming and deadly. “I have left my mother’s funeral unfinished. I have left my father’s bones in you and yours’ care, for I do not wish for war. I have watched you blaspheme my people’s sacred rituals, and I have followed you down this mountain, following  _ your father’s  _ orders, because the lives of the living are worth more than the weights of the dead. And you dare, you  _ dare,  _ to stand before me and tell me that I not grieve the greatest man and woman that I have ever known? How dare you?  _ How dare you?” _

Jon stumbled back at the sudden, sharp flood of words.

_ Mourning,  _ he thought.  _ That’s what the wreaths are for. _

“I didn’t mean-”

“Get out,” she snapped.

Jon blinked, still unmoving, and Alayne seemed to take some sort of rebuke in his actions- her mouth snapped shut, and she straightened, and her posture became almost conciliatory; but when Jon looked closer, he could see the way her jaw remained taut, and the hard look in her eyes.

“I do not care for your men or their  _ discomfort,”  _ said Alayne, after a long pause. When he still didn’t move, she asked, neither firm nor gentle; merely weary: “Was there anything else, my lord?”

“No,” he said, still a little shell-shocked. He sketched a slight bow and strode out of the tent quickly.

_ Gods. When Edd called her grief-mad, he didn’t lie. _

…

Before she left the Eyrie, Anya Waynwood had pulled her aside and wrapped her arms in a shawl the blue of a midnight sky. Her eyes hadn’t watered, but she had looked tired in a way that made Sansa guilty.

“The King shall not kill you,” Lady Anya had said, quietly. “You are the last Arryn. But keep your head down, Alayne, in King’s Landing: the city is full of liars and killers, and you’re too kind for them by half. Don’t give them an excuse to hate you.”

If all King Rhaegar wished to accomplish by calling Alayne Arryn to the capital were to kill her in full view of the city, then he would do what he wished. But the Vale hadn’t fought in a war in over a decade, and the Crownlands were still recovering from Robert Baratheon’s second rebellion. If the King killed the defenseless daughter of Lord Arryn without reason- the Vale would rise up.

But the Targaryens always ran too close to madness, and Sansa couldn’t afford to forget that.

Every sunrise she saw, she wondered if it would be her last.

…

“Your Majesty,” Sansa murmured, sweeping into a curtsy. “It is an honor.”

“The honor is mine,” said King Rhaegar. “You’ve traveled so far, so quickly- in such grief. I assure you, your acquiescence shall be amply rewarded: as soon as the snows lessen, your father’s body shall be taken up to the Eyrie.”

“Your Majesty’s kindness knows no bounds,” Sansa said quietly. 

“And that is not the end.” He nodded, waving at the people arranged behind her. “For the Vale’s understanding, and their loyalty, I wish to offer them a reward. It is my will that you, Lady Alayne, marry my son, Prince Jon Targaryen.”

Sansa blinked, her lips parting in sheer shock.

_ I was ready to be clapped in chains. Not… marriage. _

Dimly, she heard Jon ask, “Aegon?” His voice might’ve been weaker than usual, but the ringing in Sansa’s ears outweighed all else.

“Your brother remains on Dragonstone,” said King Rhaegar. “What of him?”

“Is it not the will of the Seven that the elder marry before the younger?” 

Sansa inhaled shakily. The flash of Jon’s black-leather arm against the corner of her vision left her feeling at least a little better.  _ He wants this as little as I do.  _ At least that was a kindness.

“It is the will of the Seven that the elder is  _ betrothed _ before the younger,” replied King Rhaegar. “And Aegon has been promised to Rhaenys for more than a decade.” He turned to Alayne. “What say you, Lady Alayne?”

She felt herself go rigid.

…

Alayne’s face remained blank, a feat that Jon wished himself capable of- her face had paled at his father’s announcement, but she’d held fast to her composure. As it was, he felt both anger and confusion war inside him until his hands trembled. 

For his father to have decided upon this betrothal, he’d need to have planned it for at least a length of time, which in turn meant he could have told Jon. Instead, he chose to spring it on him at the same time he made it public.

“I-” Alayne’s voice caught on the syllable as if it were thorned, but before anyone could truly comprehend it, she’d sank into a graceful curtsy, her long dark hair shielding her face from view, and when she spoke next her voice was steady. “I am honored, Your Grace. I can think of no greater reward.”

“Then go,” said his father, a pleased smile pulling across his lips. “Rest. We shall speak further on the morrow.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” said Alayne, turning and walking away.

Jon watched her leave, and turned back to his father. The majority of court seemed to lose interest in them; Jon kept his back straight and stiff and his eyes locked on his father.

“Where is my mother?” He asked, after a long pause. It was curt, and likely too disrespectful when addressing a king- but Jon was angry. And if he stayed there for much longer, he was like to start shouting. 

Rhaegar’s eyes hardened slightly. “Lyanna rode north to Winterfell months previous,” he said lowly. “Lord Stark arrived a fortnight previous, with two of his children.” As Jon started to walk away, he added, “Jon: you might be grateful. Lady Alayne is lovely, and looks to have a good head on her shoulders. You could have done far worse in marriage.”

“I do not claim to dislike this match for distaste of Lady Alayne,” Jon said stiffly. “Rather for the lack of warning.”

But it was useless, as Jon well knew. When he’d come to King’s Landing two years ago, Rhaegar’s personality had fascinated him; after a few months, he’d understood that Rhaegar was more self-absorbed than anything else, with sporadic bursts of possessiveness that alienated all those close to him.

Rhaegar essentially paid as much attention to Jon as he did a dancing monkey, which was none at all when there were more important things at hand and a vague sort of fascination when there was nothing else around. It’d been insulting at first, but Jon quickly realized that it wasn’t just him that was treated that way: from Jon’s mother to Queen Elia to Queen Rhaella, Rhaegar simply disdained to observe those closest to him.

With an irritated sigh, Jon left the throne room. At least his uncle was here, and he’d likely brought Arya with him. They’d be able to talk, and he’d be able to relax a little in their rooms.

…

The next few weeks were- boring.

Sansa didn’t know anyone in King’s Landing, and even her maids were paid and vetted by the Targaryens. But even more than that, people ignored her. Perhaps it was because she was the only daughter of an attainted traitor. Nevertheless, Sansa was bored, and lonely, and rapidly getting tired of the wary looks from servants and nobility alike.

One small mercy were the gardens, where few people roamed; the heavy blooms scented the air, and the tall hedges muffled the noise. If she was very careful, people didn’t even know she was there.

Which was why Sansa spent hours there.

And when she turned a corner, she saw a little shadow dart into a larger man and heard the distinctive clack of wooden swords. Upon further examination, she saw that she’d happened upon the practice yard- and yet the people there weren’t the white cloaked Kingsguard, as Sansa might have expected; it was a thin little boy thrusting his wooden sword around a man, in a practiced rhythm.

_ But he has braids- oh. _

A moment later, Sansa realized that it was no boy holding the sword: it was a girl, tall and skinny, with dark hair braided away from her face. Once she paid attention, she could see the slight swell of the girl’s hips, the way she moved higher, arcing gracefully as opposed to the more stiff style favored by men- it was obvious, thought Sansa, once you knew what to look for.

_ So girls are allowed to use swords, in King’s Landing?  _ Sansa bit her lip.  _ What else could be different here?  _

Lady Waynwood had told her to keep her head down.

But Sansa had  _ done  _ that, for longer than a fortnight now, and still people acted as if she’d die at one wrong step. And anyhow, it wouldn’t be too difficult to dress as a servant- there were even a few dresses that she’d brought from the Eyrie that were overly simple for any Arryn to wear.

_ I’ve been coddled for long enough. If all they’ll do is ignore me, I’d be best served finding out  _ why.  _ And if girls can bear swords- then I can wear a servant’s gown. I’ll be careful. _

_ But it’ll be  _ something _ to do, won’t it? _

…

A week later, Jon came up to her.

“Would you like to- take a walk, my lady?”

_ I would wish to never see your face again, blasphemer,  _ thought Sansa waspishly, before sighing and taking his offered arm. Perhaps she was being unfair, pushing King Rhaegar’s orders onto Jon. It wasn’t as if he’d forced her to stop burning the rosemary wreaths, even if he’d asked her to; and after, he’d never held her sharp words against her. 

“It is a bright day,” she said, struggling to offer up some conversation. “And the gardens here are particularly lovely.”

“Everyone says that you spend much of your time here- I’m glad you could find something of note in King’s Landing.” He grimaced. “I confess, I rather dislike it.”

“Oh? Do you have a city that you prefer more?”

“Winterfell,” Jon said simply. 

“Ah, yes.” Sansa cocked her head to the side. “I’d heard you lived there until you were twelve. Is that true?”

His face hardened slightly. “Yes.”

“Ah,” she repeated, a little lost when he didn’t respond; slightly helplessly, she went on, “Your mother left for Winterfell a few months previous, didn’t she? How is she, my lord?”

“As you’d expect,” said Jon. 

“And your- uncle? His two children? How do they find-”

“I’m certain everyone is  _ fine,”  _ he snapped abruptly, yanking his arm away.

The distance he put between them, the way he stood- they were still in full view of the more crowded parts of the gardens. And he’d said that last sentence so loudly that those closer to them were starting to stare. Hurt warred with offense, and offense won. Cheeks bright red with humiliation, Sansa almost went to slap him- it was only an acute knowledge that doing so would likely result in her imprisonment that she didn’t.

“How dare you,” she bit out instead, voice forcefully low.

“How dare  _ you?”  _ Jon retorted. “I try to get to know my future wife better, I try to make peace between us, and you spend the entire time mocking me?” Sansa gaped, mouth open soundlessly, and he strode forwards, face flushed. “Well, Lady Alayne, I’d suggest you reconcile yourself to this marriage, for my father will surely not call it off. I am to be your husband, for better or for worse, and the sooner you accept that fact, the sooner you’ll find yourself happy.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Sansa said slowly, when Jon paused. “I simply asked-”

“You think I don’t know what people say?” He demanded. “That they don’t talk about how my own father forces my mother to send her family to court if she is to leave, as if all they are- are  _ hostages?”  _

Sansa felt her confusion twist with pity; but then Jon ruined it by  _ opening his mouth. _

“So stop acting as if you’re that much better than me, and start  _ trying.” _

“You aren’t the only person to try to make this a better match,” Sansa flared back. “I might have wanted a husband who didn’t shatter my mother’s death silence, I might have wanted a husband who didn’t represent my  _ father’s killers,  _ but I’ve bent my head as easily as I could! I’ve kept the Vale from war! I’ve been a loyal citizen, an obedient noble, beyond any other duty I could have sworn. You think sending my father’s bones is a  _ gift,  _ my lord? It is a  _ right.  _ The basic rights granted any lord. So stop thinking that you are the only one who dislikes this match!”

“I,” he hissed, “am a prince.”

Everything went still and quiet. Sansa felt herself straighten, felt her anger go cold as the waterfalls surrounding the Eyrie, felt a faint ringing in her ears. He might not have said it, but she could read it in his eyes easily enough:  _ I am a prince, and you are the daughter of a traitor. You ought to be on your knees, begging me for mercy, thanking me for my kindness. _

_ I am an Arryn,  _ Sansa thought, hands quivering slightly.  _ I have a moon’s chill, a falcon’s pride. If you thought I’d beg you for anything, you will choke on your mistakes.  _

“Yes,” she said. “And you are also a killer. You are the son of two killers.”

His nostrils flared, and for the first time Sansa felt a twinge of fear at the dark fury in Jon’s eyes. But before she could flinch away, he’d turned on his heel and left. 

_ How dare he?  _ She thought, sinking down to sit on a nearby bench. And yet, for all the anger she felt, she couldn’t help but feel that the thought rang false. Sansa had been the one to overstep this time, and she knew it.  _ I shouldn’t have gone so far. But he should not have done as he did, either. _

Oh, gods above- was she to never properly speak to her husband? Was she to face a marriage of long, cold silences interspersed liberally with both of them acting no better than harridans?

And yet- for a heartbeat, she’d felt more alive than ever before. There had been something in feeling something so proud and frozen and unyielding, something that she’d never before tasted. Perhaps it was not offered to bastards. Perhaps Sansa, in wearing Alayne’s skin, had gained other, more eldritch things. 

…

The next day, Sansa was brushing her hair- alone, a habit she’d gotten into on the ride to King’s Landing, the weight a pleasant one that reminded her of Lady Rowena’s hands pulling at her hair when she was younger, when a glint caught her eye.

It was her hair: the strands, always dark enough to rival the night sky, had lightened at the crown of her head, to a shade different enough to stand out. Sansa frowned, peering at it, and after some fumbling plucked one of the strands.

The dark color hadn’t just lightened.

Sansa’d seen this on Lady Rowena, when they cut her braids away. This wasn’t naturally done- this was a dye. She frowned and looked closer, and felt her brows pull together further: the red ran beneath the brown.

_ My natural hair is… red. Someone’s been dyeing it all along. _

_...why? _

…

“My lady,” called a man.

Sansa turned and offered a placid smile to the lord- one she’d seen walking about the keep but never truly spoken to. She thought she remembered Jon talking to him, but she couldn’t be certain.

“My lord,” she said, inclining her head. “I- regret to say that I don’t know your name. My sincerest apologies-”

“None needed.” He smiled, slightly, and his grey eyes warmed considerably with the expression; there was something very fatherly in his face, Sansa thought. “My name is Eddard Stark.”

“Lord Stark,” Sansa murmured. “Was there something you wished to speak to me of, my lord?”

“Nothing important. Am I stopping you from a previous commitment?”

“Not at all.” 

_ I spend most of my days either in the gardens or the sept. Surely you know that I’ve no friends here.  _

“I knew your father,” he said suddenly. “Jon was a good friend of mine- like a father to me. He raised me, in the Vale, when I was younger than you are now. And I knew your mother as well, of course. You’ve much of her grace.”

Sansa felt her smile freeze, slightly, at the edges; she held fast to her composure. “Some would say I’ve her pride, as well.”

“Yes.” Lord Stark coughed, slightly, and then looked back at her. “I meant to ask you, my lady, of a girl you’d likely have heard of while in the Eyrie. Perhaps not well, but if you could only tell me of where I could find her, I’d be grateful.”

“A girl, my lord?” Sansa frowned. “I knew few enough people. But tell me her name; I’ll see if I know it.”

“Sansa,” he said, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. “Sansa Stone.”

She knew she was paling, and that her eyes had widened. She knew that everything hinged on her acting, and  _ gods  _ why would a proper lord be asking after a bastard left behind in the Vale-

“My lady?” Lord Stark asked, alarmed. “My lady!”

_ You are Alayne. Stop thinking of yourself as Sansa. You  _ are _ Alayne _ .

“I’m fine,” Sans- Alayne said, waving him away. “No, my lord, truly- you’ve caught me unaware, that is all. I… I confess, I’m surprised, that you know of a bastard in the Vale.”

“I knew her when I was there,” he confessed.

Alayne frowned, yanking thoughts together. “You couldn’t. She’s more than a year younger than I, and I was born right after the Rebellion. Perhaps you speak of a different girl.”

“But you do know of one?”

“I- yes.”  _ You are Alayne.  _ She swallowed. “But it might be more accurate to say that I knew her. The morning that my mother died, Sansa threw herself off the Eyrie.”

It was Lord Stark’s turn to go white. He staggered back a half-step before remembering himself; eyes wide and shocked, he asked hoarsely, “She’s dead? You’re certain of this?”

“I watched her die in front of me.” From somewhere, she found the strength to step forwards and press against his arm; even summon up a sympathetic smile. “I tried to stop her. She was a dear friend to me. But she is gone now, my lord. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be of more help.”

“No,” he said, averting his face. When he looked up at her, his eyes were colder than ever before. Alayne shivered slightly. “Thank you for your time, my lady.”

He bowed stiffly, and strode away.

Alayne rounded a corner and sank against the nearest bench she could find, scrubbing at her face furiously. She needed to get better. The next time someone asked any questions, she had to be better prepared. 

_ But, still: what does the Warden of the North want with a bastard girl from the Vale? _

She’d started pulling her hair on top of her scalp, favoring the high braids that Cersei Lannister made fashionable- it hid the brightest red hairs from view. But now her neck ached, and her eyes stung with unshed tears, and all she wished for was to throw herself atop her bed and weep for a kinder, simpler time. She wished Alayne were there beside her, a cold hand resting on top of Sansa’s own, a tongue sharper than any blade to defend against Sansa’s demons.

_ Alayne died,  _ Sansa thought, and clutched her composure close to her chest.  _ Alayne died, and you rose from her ashes. You  _ are  _ Alayne Arryn of the Eyrie, a falcon of the Vale. _

_ You will be strong. _

…

“Who is that girl?” Cersei asked, cocking her head to the side. 

Jaime turned slightly to see whom she referred to- he’d arrived at court a few days before Cersei herself. “Ah. That’s… Alayne Arryn, I think.”

“Jon Arryn’s daughter?”

“Yes.” At Cersei’s arched eyebrow, he elaborated, “She’s a friendless little waif. Nobody wishes to call the king’s suspicion on them, so they’re leaving the girl alone. She spends most of her time in the sept or the gardens.”

Cersei arched the other eyebrow. “A pious little waif? Oh, then she’ll be easily called to heel.”

“What are you thinking?”

Cersei glanced around, ensuring nobody listened to them. Rhaegar had thought her loyal, because her father hadn’t pledged any men to the Baratheon rebellion, and so he’d invited her back to court along with her three children. It felt good to be back in a place that was  _ happening-  _ after banishment for so many years, she’d almost forgotten how bright and deadly court could be. It wouldn’t do to let anyone name them traitors, after all, and so she leaned in, breathing in Jaime’s ear, “Joffrey will need a queen soon enough. And who better than the key to the Vale? Than a quiet, friendless chit who wants nothing more than to be acknowledged by  _ someone  _ of power?”

Jaime caught her arm, his green eyes flashing. Cersei held her breath, watching him closely, and he smirked slightly.

“You know that, do you?”

“That’s what any girl her age wants,” said Cersei, eyes narrowing back on Jaime. “Now, go on, darling brother: there are many women here who wish to speak to you. You ought to speak to them.”

“Should I?”

“So long as you know whose bed you’ll be in tonight.”

…

Alayne wrapped herself in the dark woolen cloak walked outside.

It was easy enough, to hide her high braids under the hood and keep her head down. Alayne knew where she was going, and she knew that she had to get there quickly and quietly- and that was made much easier by the fact that nobody ever truly looked at her, anyways.

Down three corridors, out into a small, private courtyard; she cut across the grass towards the same secluded area she’d seen the girl practicing with a sword in, and hesitated in the shadows for just long enough to realize that Arya Stark’s lesson was finished, and she was starting to leave.

Startling, Alayne stepped forwards and grabbed her arm.

Before Arya could tear herself away, however, Alayne spoke.

“I’d like to talk to you. In private.”

“Who-” Arya stared up at her, and then recognition flooded her face. “You’re Alayne Arryn. Jon’s betrothed.”

“I- yes.” Alayne hesitated. “Please, just for a little while. I wouldn’t be asking if it weren’t urgent.”

Arya blinked warily. “I… suppose. Talk away, if you want to.”

“Not here.” Alayne looked around her, and then yanked Arya along with her, further into the hedges until there was absolutely no chance of someone seeing them. 

“What’s with all the secrecy?”

“I don’t want it getting back to your father,” said Alayne. 

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because I’m asking about him.”

“Asking- as in?”

“A week ago, your father came up to me and asked me about a girl- I knew.”  _ He asked me about a girl I was.  _ “A bastard I knew in the Vale. I’d like to know what’s of such importance that a Lord of Winterfell would know about a bastard girl in the Eyrie.”

“Is that all?” Arya asked impatiently. “Seven hells, woman! I’m sure it’s nothing great. Father’s always thinking about such people- the smallfolk. Perhaps he saw her when he was fostered there. I don’t-”

“The girl was born after he left,” Alayne said in a rush. “He refused to entertain thoughts as to why he knew her, as well. Are you not at least  _ curious?” _

Everything she’d seen of the girl from afar said Arya would be. Surely,  _ surely,  _ a girl who explored the dungeons in her spare time could be driven to consider this mystery.

Arya sent her a slightly disdainful glance and made to leave.

Alayne could see everything spinning out from here: Arya would tell Jon, and likely even her father. They’d both start investigating, and for all that she was good at lying, who knew what could happen if she weren’t careful?

_ Gods above,  _ swore Alayne, and threw back her hood with one hand; dug her fingers into Arya’s arm with the other.

“L- just see this.”

With one hand, she began undoing her high braids. Arya glared up at her, though she didn’t throw Alayne’s hand off her own. When she let them fall freely, she bent slightly and turned so Arya could see.

“Do you see?”

“See  _ what?” _

“The red.”

“...yes.”

Alayne turned around and looked at her, heart pounding in her chest. “It’s at the crown of my head. And- I’ve seen the like before. It’s a dye.”

“So you’ve been dyeing your hair dark.” Arya rolled her eyes. “Big deal.”

“Not me. My- Lady Rowena. She insisted on washing my hair every few months. But the last time she was strong enough to do it, it was almost three moons ago. The roots are growing in.”

Arya frowned. “What does this have to do with my father?”

“Your father asked about a bastard named Sansa Stone,” said Alayne, softly. “A girl who knew neither father nor mother. And I have told you this because-” she breathed deep, and let the truth finally rise up, “-because I am not Alayne Arryn.”

_ “What?”  _ She asked.

“Not so loud,” Alayne- no, she was Sansa now- admonished, and swallowed. 

“If you’re not Alayne Arryn, who are you?”

Sansa swallowed. “Sansa Stone,” she said. “A bastard, born and raised in the Vale.”

Arya gaped at her.  _ “You’re  _ Sansa? Then- where’s Alayne?”

“Dead.”

“You killed her?”

“Of course not!” Sansa said, horrified. “She threw herself off the Eyrie, when news of her mother’s death reached us.” Arya still looked unconvinced, so she added: “I loved Alayne. If I could have bring her back and place her where I stand, I would. I wouldn’t hesitate for even a breath.”

Arya chewed over that for a long moment.

Sansa felt her breath get shorter. “You understand why I wish to know your father’s curiosity?”

“Yes,” said Arya, eyes flicking up to meet Sansa’s. “I do. And I’ll keep your secret, don’t worry.” Abruptly, her face hardened, and she stepped closer, nails piercing Sansa’s forearm. “But if it turns out you’re lying, I’ll not hesitate to tell the truth. I’m a wolf, Sansa Stone: and no wolf ever truly cares for anything outside of its pack.”

Sansa felt her lips press together, thinning until it was almost painful. She stepped away from Arya.  _ You’ve a father, a brother; a cousin, who loves you as if he were your own brother. You’ve a man to teach you to wield a sword. You have an entire world, Arya Stark: and I have nothing.  _ Sansa pulled her hair back under her hood, letting the shroud of Alayne’s persona fall over her once more.

“My name is Alayne Arryn,” she said quietly. “Do not fear, Lady Arya: I do not ask for your loyalty, or your love. Only your help. And I am not lying- I am afraid. People have lied to me for years, people I trusted- and I still do not understand so much. You are one of very few in a position to help me.”  _ And even if you reveal me, who will trust the words of a wolf-wild child?  _ “I thank you for your assistance.”

Arya looked away, face tense as if warring with some emotion- and then, she nodded decisively.

“Fine. I’ll speak to my father tonight, then. Can you come to my quarters tomorrow morning?”

Hope blossomed in Alayne’s throat like an unfurling flower. She nodded.

“I shall see you then,” she murmured.

…

_ When your hair is high,  _ she thought,  _ you are Alayne.  _

_ And when it falls free, you are Sansa. _

…

The next morning, however, when she went to Arya’s chambers, Arya was nowhere to be found. A servant told her to stay put; his eyes conveyed a sort of sympathy for her position, though he didn’t say anything. She waited quietly.

Before Arya ever arrived, though, her brother stepped out of his rooms- tall, lanky, with hair a few shades lighter than Arya’s own. His eyes swept over Alayne, and he tilted his head curiously.

“You’re to marry Jon,” he said.

“Yes,” acknowledged Alayne.

He nodded in acknowledgement. “My name is Bran. Please- are you waiting for someone? Here?” 

He looked fairly dubious at the prospect. Alayne felt her lips twitch in faint amusement.

“Your sister,” she replied. Bran looked even more dubious at that answer, and so she continued, “She asked me to meet her here. Though- she clearly isn’t here herself.”

He blinked, but then laughter lightened his features in a manner she hadn’t seen in either his sister or father- perhaps a gift from his mother. “Arya runs around whenever we come south,” he explained, snorting slightly. “Father tried to stop her the first time, but… let’s just say that didn’t work out too well. And after that, she just does what she wants. So long as she doesn’t get hurt, Father doesn’t worry too much. 

Alayne smiled, softly. “I can see that. Not many women know to wield swords.”

“Is that what she calls it? Her teacher’s from Essos-  _ he  _ calls it water-dancing.”

“So Arya is simply learning- a foreign type of dance,” Alayne commented, amused. “Why, that ought to be a song, shouldn’t it?”

Bran grinned at her. “You like songs, then? Which one’s your favorite?”

_ Poor boy- neither Arya nor her father seem particularly interested in songs. And if Jon is any indication of your elder brother, I’d say Robb Stark is also far more likely to jump into battles rather than listen to songs. _

“The one of Aerea Targaryen,” said Alayne. 

Bran frowned. “I’ve not heard that one.”

“Aerea escapes to the godswood when her Uncle Jaehaerys takes King’s Landing,” Alayne explained. “How she stays there, and weeps, and refuses to name him king so long as she yet lives, for King Maegor had named her his heir.” She shivered. “It is a haunting melody- there was a minstrel in the Eyrie who could bring tears to the most hard-hearted person’s eyes with the tune.”

“That sounds…”

“Sad,” said Arya stepping into the room. She rolled her eyes when she saw who her brother was talking to. “Gods, don’t you have better things to do with your time than bully my friends?”

Bran’s face shifted from interest to irritation.

“Lady Alayne’s a friend now?” He retorted. “You were calling her an unworthy tr-”

Arya lunged, hand coming up and pinching Bran’s ear. Alayne retreated, serenely ignoring the scene; within a few moments, Bran’s protests faded as Arya kicked him out of the room. Only when the door clicked did she turn around, and tug at her hair, letting Alayne fade into the background.

“I thought you didn’t want my father knowing about your interest,” Arya stated flatly.

Sansa’s lips tightened. “I don’t. But- if you’ve found out why he’s asking, then I can be better prepared. I didn’t wish to be rude to a boy so young, simply for the sake of…”

Arya arched an eyebrow. “Your safety,” she said bluntly. After a pause, loud enough that Sansa couldn’t pretend to  _ not  _ hear, she added, “Gods, that’s irritating. You’re actually a nice person under all the frippery.”

Sansa waited, unsure if she should be irritated or not; Arya didn’t care for such careful considerations and instead flung herself at a chair, sprawling across it. After a hesitant moment, Sansa followed her and perched herself on the edge.

“So did you ask him?”

“I did.” Arya made a moue of something close to distaste. “He didn’t answer, and instead went on a rant as to why I ought to be more careful of whom I speak to. Apparently the only people who are capable of telling me of your fate are secretly rebels, and our fate is precarious enough here without me endangering us further.”

“Does he not know that I’ve spoken to a sum total of- five, no six- people after arriving here?” Sansa inquired, polite in the same way a shard of glass to the face might be. “That two of those are the king and my betrothed, the other three being himself and his children? If anyone thinks the Starks to be rebels, it is because of  _ him,  _ no one else.”

Arya blinked at her, startled, before sighing. “Try telling  _ him  _ that.”

Sansa sighed as well, and then rose. “Very well, then. Thank you for the attempt, I suppose.”

She was almost at the door when Arya called out, “I do think there’s something we can do about your hair, at least. I’ve a- friend. I can get a dark hair dye easily enough, and if you’re careful-”

“Nobody brushes my hair but myself,” Sansa assured her. “I’ve told them it’s a Vale custom, and they know  enough to keep quiet about it.”

“Good,” said Arya. Briefly, her eyes softened, so she didn’t look so wary- only pitying. 

Sansa bit back the instinctive, prideful answer that threatened to rise, and took her leave politely as she could manage. 

_ I am a Stone and an Arryn. Through the worst hells people wish upon me, I will be honorable. Let the stories say that if the line of Arryn ends with me, it ends by our words:  _ as high as honor.

…

On the way back to her rooms, Alayne met Joffrey Baratheon.

“My lady,” he said, bowing far deeper than necessary. His blue eyes met hers through his blond fringe, and Alayne felt her cheeks flush at the look in them.

“My lord,” she said, dipping into her own curtsy. 

“Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you?” 

“Of course,” said Alayne, cheeks heating further. “Though- I’m only headed to my chambers. I thank you for your gallantry, my lord, but I fear it unwarranted.”

“Unwarranted?” He stepped closer to her and offered her his arm. “If all ladies were as lovely as you, my lady, there would be no need for gallantry. Surely you receive such treatment everywhere you go.”

_ I receive pity everywhere I go, followed closely by wariness. The only men I’ve known to speak such lies are liars themselves, so tell me- what do you wish for, my lord? Why risk branding yourself a traitor by speaking to me? _

Alayne, tentatively, tested the waters. “Was there anything you wished to speak to me of, my lord?”

“Yes,” said Lord Baratheon, and Alayne braced herself for the demands. “My mother wishes to invite you to a private tea tomorrow afternoon. She sent me to ask you.”

Alayne swallowed, taken off guard- though she recovered the pace quickly enough. “I’d love to,” she said. 

_ It will be nice to speak to someone of gossip and tea,  _ she thought. In her disguised excursions across the keep, she’d happened over bits of gossip that at least didn’t leave her entirely ignorant of common knowledge- such as Renly and Loras Tyrell’s affair, or the Lady Darry’s tendency to water down her gold to appear richer than she actually was, or even the number of brothels owned by Petyr Baelish. But neither Jon nor Arya would ever be interested in what she had to say- and likely, Cersei Lannister would be.  _ It will be nice to relax for a bit, won’t it? _

…

Back in her rooms, she glared up at the ceiling.

_ Couldn’t Jon be more like Joffrey?  _ She wished to demand the gods.  _ A man who is kind and honorable and gallant. A man who is fair-haired. A man who is actually capable of stringing two words together in my presence that aren’t insulting. _

…

“Everyone knows that story,” said Cersei, her voice ugly.

Sansa bit her lip and sank further into the shrubbery, wanting nothing more than to disappear from her current position- she wasn’t visible to either Lady Cersei or her brother Jaime, but her invisibility was only by the slimmest of margins. If either became suspicious or went looking, the charade would be up.

“Cersei,” said Jaime Lannister.

“No,” snarled Cersei.  _ “No.  _ Gods above, Jaime, half of it is your fault! After Robert was defeated at the Trident, you should’ve kept your sword sheathed and not struck Aerys down. After Rhaegar decreed that I was the bride-price to keep the Westerlands from outright war, you should’ve stopped him!”

“I? What could a single man have done?”

Cersei threw something, the dull thud echoing through the garden. “You killed one king. What’s another?”

“Cersei-”

“And what of now?” She demanded. “Twenty years later, and the same damn mistakes are being made. When Robert called his banners, you said  _ nothing.  _ And then not only Robert, but  _ Jon Arryn-  _ the most honorable man in Westeros- dies in a crossfire that was engineered by Viserys Targaryen. And your gamble only failed due to my interference! Do you think they’d have allowed you back to court if Rhaegar knew you were one of Robert’s lieutenants?”

Cersei and Jaime turned the corner and their conversation became muffled once more, leaving Sansa alone. 

She frowned, throwing the hood of her cloak over her head and starting back to the keep once more. Sansa’d known that Jon Arryn had died in Tumbleton, after Robert Baratheon won three battles, but that was common knowledge. The assumption was that Lord Arryn had died in a battle, but a crossfire implied something different- particularly an  _ engineered _ crossfire.

_ If Prince Viserys killed Jon Arryn in anything less than pitched battle, then the Vale would have been furious,  _ Sansa realized.  _ The Vale would have been furious, and they would have had an army that outnumbered anything the Crownlands could muster. _

She entered the keep and froze, eyes widening with the epiphany.  _ This is why I’m marrying Jon. The King doesn’t want another rebellion on his hands. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I understand that there are things unanswered in this chapter, but rest assured that they will be addressed in later ones.
> 
> Next up: Lannisters plot, Targaryens get angry, Starks stay alive, and Sansa continues to try to convince everyone that she is, in fact, Alayne Arryn.
> 
> (hint: it really, really doesn't work.)


	2. phileo (deep friendship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne is dead.
> 
> I, she thought, head up, hands unshaking, am Sansa Stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: violence, minor acts of sexual violence, and Sansa juggling multiple personalities. Joffrey's in this chapter, and... that should tell you enough. Also, come scream at me on my tumblr: dialux.tumblr.com ! I always love new friends!

**** “Perhaps you should try the raspberry tarts,” advised Lady Cersei. “They’re the best things made by the cook here.”

Alayne stared at her plate, full of lemon cake crumbs, slight regretfully- but there was something cold in Cersei’s face that made her want to shiver, and told her that refusal wouldn’t be accepted easily. She reached out and took the raspberry tart.

“Tell me about yourself.”

Alayne breathed in and smiled, practiced and true. “I grew up in the Eyrie, my lady,” she said. “It’s a cold place, and the marble that the castle is made of makes it even colder. There was even one winter in which w- I saw frost, creeping up the walls like so many vines.”

“It sounds like the North,” said Cersei, arching an eyebrow. “They say Winterfell is made of the coldest grey stone the gods have ever fashioned.”

“I… don’t know anything of that.” Alayne shrugged gracefully. “But the Eyrie is beautiful. In the early mornings, the sun reflects off the mountains, off the marble. It shines like a star.”

“Indeed. And the people?”

“The people are-”  _ fools,  _ the true Alayne would have said, disdainfully. But this false Alayne only smiled thinly. “-proud. I spoke very little to them for many years- my parents were very protective. And I was my father’s only heir.”

Cersei nodded. “They had reason, then. Had I only Joffrey, I’d never let him out of my sight.”

“I don’t disagree with their reasons,” Alayne replied. “But the effects of their actions have left me with little knowledge of the Vale beyond the Eyrie.”

“And with this betrothal of yours, you’ve no need to learn at all. How- convenient.”

Alayne frowned. “I’m not certain I understand.”

“No?” Cersei pursed her lips. “King Rhaegar commands a boy who holds no love for the Crownlands- oh, don’t play coy, sweetling, it’s clear that Jon Targaryen hates the south and the south rather dislikes him in return.” She waved a hand. “The King commands his son to marry you, a son who’s greatest allegiance is to his mother’s family- to  _ you,  _ the key to the Vale, which is colder, by your own admission, than most any other land in this kingdom. Mark my words, as soon as you receive a cloak of red and black, you’ll both be sent back to the Vale and your husband will take over the running.”

“I am the heir,” said Alayne, a little sharply. “I am my father’s heir. Legitimized by King Rhaegar’s own hand, when I’d seen scarce five years. He cannot take my rights away-”

“The King can do whatever he wishes,” Cersei murmured, eyes a very cold blue. “And anyhow: he is simply claiming you as his own, and  _ then  _ taking it. Not a one will think anything of it.”

Alayne stared into her plate for a long minute. She couldn’t just give up the Vale, not to a Targaryen invader. Not when the line of Arryn had stood tall for such long centuries, a proud beacon of Andal nobility against the Valyrian invaders. She’d  _ trusted,  _ too, in Jon Targaryen’s honor, in King Rhaegar’s kind words. 

She’d been a fool.

Cersei leaned forwards and placed a light hand on her arm. “I know what it is to be the bride-price of peace,” she said quietly. Alayne nodded- Cersei knew that better than most. After Robert’s Rebellion, to punish the Lannisters for a lack of action, and to hurt Robert Baratheon’s popularity in the Stormlands, Rhaegar had demanded Cersei marry Robert. Cersei pursed her lips. “But this is not the only path you can take, lady Alayne. You need not be as helpless as I once was.”

“I need not obey the King?” Alayne asked incredulously.

“The dragons conquered Westeros.” Cersei patted her mouth with an embroidered kerchief. “But the dragons are dead now, aren’t they?”

_ This is treason,  _ thought Alayne, chest tightening with the panic.  _ Why would you tell me this, unless- _

_ Oh. _

She sipped her tea carefully, and was proud to see her hands were not shaking. There was nothing of fear left in her, then: only a wrath, pure as a moon’s shine.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “And the Targaryens are only human.”

Cersei smiled, slow and deadly as a viper.

…

“Here’s your dye,” said Arya, handing it over to her.

Sansa took the small red vial and shoved it up her sleeve. “How am I supposed to use it? Are there any special instructions?”

“Gend- my friend said you have to put two drops in the bathwater,” replied Arya. “Wash your hair in the lather, and keep it on for some time. The longer, the better.”

“Helpful. Thank you, by the way- I hadn’t thought it’d be easy to get.”

“My friend’s got hidden depths.” Arya shrugged.

Sansa was frowning at the grass thoughtfully when Arya suddenly spoke.

“What’s this I hear about you and Joffrey Baratheon?”

She turned and arched an eyebrow at Arya. “Does it matter?”

“You’re  _ Jon’s  _ betrothed.”

“Prince Jon has not condescended to speak one word to me after humiliating me in the gardens,” Sansa said, very coldly. “He has not, in fact, bothered to apologize for any of the insults he’s paid both my family and myself, and insisted that the state of our relationship is entirely my own fault. I have no wish to speak any further to him about  _ anything  _ until he can stop being such a snobbish idiot.”

Arya stared at her for a long minute, and then started to laugh.

“Needed to get some things off your chest?” She asked, eyes sparkling. After a pause, she sighed. “Gods- that… sounds like Jon.”

“Does it?” Sansa muttered under her breath.

“Jon can be a pompous ass if he puts his mind to it,” said Arya evenly. “Though he doesn’t often do so. I mean- tell me, was he very cruel?”

“Not in the way you’d call it,” said Sansa reluctantly. “I pushed after he insulted me, I’d say, and he walked off instead of continuing the humiliation. But he was insistent that I mocked him when I asked after his mother, or his history here- tell me, do you think any wife can be happy when she is married to a man who refuses to talk about anything that happened before she met him? I was making conversation- which he isn’t very good at, incidentally- and he simply started shouting.” She hesitated and then tacked on: “I can understand some of his touchiness. But it doesn’t excuse his actions.”

Arya sighed. “I’ll talk to him. Sometimes- Jon just gets in his own head. You should’ve seen him the first time he returned to Winterfell from King’s Landing: he spent most of the time by himself, sulking off in abandoned towers. Robb finally dragged him down and gave him a thrashing, and after that he was fine.”

_ Yes. That sounds like him. _

Sansa thought about Cersei Lannister and her pointed words, which she still hadn’t fully puzzled out. But she was sure about what it  _ implied-  _ and she didn’t want to go to Arya Stark with all her suspicions just yet.

“Then I thank you.”

“Though,” added Arya, “if you did have to choose someone better than Jon, I’d say that Joffrey isn’t the man you’re looking for. He’s an idiot and worse, an idiot who likes hurting people. You should hear the whispers of what he’s done to one of the whores from a brothel.”

…

A few days later, Jon approached her in her quarters.

“My lady,” he said, a little awkwardly.

Alayne curtsied, and gestured for him to take a seat; she seated herself across from him after he’d done so.

“My lord,” she replied. “This is a- surprise.”

_ Surprise is an understatement. Though I suppose Arya has her influence, doesn’t she? _

“It shouldn’t be,” said Jon, grimacing slightly. “I am sorry- my behavior that day was atrocious, and my actions after haven’t been honorable either. I should have been kinder to you.”

“Yes,” said Alayne. “You should have been.” Jon winced, and she continued, because he appeared truly contrite, “And so I thank you for your apology- but then, I wasn’t any quieter than you. The blame isn’t entirely yours, and for that I offer my own apologies.” 

“Thank you,” he said, and smiled- it made his entire face light up, she realized. It made him look younger, kinder; handsomer. “You know, you… you remind me of Daenerys.”

“Your aunt?”

“Aye. She is very kind- like my grandmother, Rhaella- but not so much that she allows me to get away with anything. Gods, last time I’d come south, I accidentally insulted a number of the City Watch. Daenerys made me apologize to them personally.”

“That must have been a sight.”

“It was.” He sighed, relaxing slightly into the settee. “I was too ashamed to leave the Keep for another three months!” Alayne felt her lips twitch into a smile. Jon grinned back. “But she’s always been the one to tell me off. I… didn’t expect you to do so.”

“Did you expect me to bite my tongue and turn my face?” Alayne asked, truly curious. When Jon hesitated, she frowned. “My lord, I am the daughter of a traitor. But I am yet an Arryn, and we are as proud as we are honorable. I would as little insult you as I would my mother’s memory.”

Jon huffed, amused. “You offer this regard only because I am your betrothed, my lady.”

Alayne bit her tongue and swallowed her frustration. “I wasn’t aiming to mock you in the garden.” 

“No,” said Jon, softly. “No, you weren’t. I got defensive- that fault was my own.” After a pause, he held out a package wrapped in dark paper. “I- well, I wished to give you this.”

He handed it to her. Alayne weighed it in one hand.

“Do you wish me to open it now?”

“Yes.” He coughed. “That’d probably be for the best.”

Alayne felt her brows pull together- but she only began to peel the wrapping apart carefully. When she’d finishing unwrapping it, she found a dagger in her hands with a black hilt, the edge a pale steel; there was a direwolf emblazoned on the hilt, teeth open and growling.

_ Not a dragon?  _

Alayne looked up at Jon. “Not a common betrothal gift.”

“No,” said Jon quietly. “But you are marrying into a family of dragons- and wolves. We have many enemies, my lady. If you must use this, you must not hesitate. You must move fast, and you must move to kill. If you are to be my wife- Aegon the Conqueror’s queens were both dragon-riders. You must be no less deadly.”

“I have no dragons,” said Alayne, slightly amused.

“You do not,” Jon replied, solemnly. “And thus you must hold all a dragon’s fire inside you.”

_ “This _ is a direwolf.”

“My mother always says that the most dangerous dragons were the ice dragons,” he said. “The ones that flew on wings more silent than any of those that breathed fire. And,” he added, wryly, “what am I if not for one of those?”

“What indeed?” Alayne asked, and leaned forwards, catching one of his hands in hers. “Thank you. I regret that I’ve nothing to give back to you- but rest assured, I will cherish it.”

“I pray that you never have reason to use it,” said Jon, hand squeezing back. 

_ Perhaps,  _ thought Alayne, then, heart squeezing just as hard as her hands in Jon’s,  _ perhaps our marriage will not be overly bad. Perhaps- perhaps we can even build something.  _

…

Joffrey invited her to dinner.

Sansa remembered the way she’d felt, sitting beside Cersei Lannister, all the silences that held hidden weight, the cold treason that dripped from her mouth. She breathed deep and made up her mind to be perfectly polite to Joffrey- but discourage him from any further liberties.

_ Prince Jon is my betrothed,  _ she imagined saying.  _ I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but I cannot offer you such favors. _

The opulence in his chambers were her first undoing. Her second was Joffrey’s easy, unthinking gallantry. The last was the wine.

An hour or two after the whole thing, Joffrey began talking.

“Mother says she’s told you about the plan,” he said.

Alayne paused. “My lord?” 

“The plan,” Joffrey repeated. “The plan to kill the fucking Targaryens. My father was a fool, but he was right in that nobody likes them. Only reason they ever got the Iron Throne were their dragons, and they’re all gone now. And my grandfather’s richer than anyone else, and we’ve got the Tyrells as well. If the Vale joins us…”

Alayne didn’t bite her lip. She kept a smile fixed to her face and eyes perfectly level.

_ I beg your forgiveness, my lord, but I cannot offer you such things. _

“No,” she said.

Joffrey’s eyes darkened. “What?”

“My lord-”

_ “What  _ did you just say?” 

He stood up, deadly as a stag, vicious as a lion. Alayne felt her breath catch in her lungs.

_ He has a sword.  _ Alayne recoiled, but her back was to the wall and she couldn’t flee Joffrey even if she wished it.  _ He has a sword, and looks ready to use it.  _

Even as she watched, Joffrey’s hand crept towards the hilt.

“All I meant was that the Targaryens would be finished, my lord.” Alayne swallowed, hard. “That I could say no to my betrothed.” Her smile was strained, she knew, and her hands trembled in her lap. “That is all.”

“Good,” said Joffrey, still looking slightly suspicious. “We will have no mercy for those that stand against us. They will receive a sword to their neck, if they’re lucky.”

Alayne bent her head. “Of course, my lord.”

He stepped forwards, then, and yanked her chin up; dragged her to her feet by that hold. Alayne scrabbled slightly, but he only pressed forwards and kissed her, hard and bruising against her lips. After a long, breathless moment, Alayne let her stiffness fade slightly, let herself accept his attentions, even if she couldn’t- or wouldn’t- reciprocate.

“We will rule together,” he breathed, finally stepping away.

“Yes,” said Alayne, smile steady as a sword in Jon’s hands. “We will, my lord. They’ll remember our names for centuries.”

…

By the time she’d left Joffrey’s rooms, she felt numb.

Numb and drained, as if she were a doll who’d been emptied of her stuffing. Her limbs ached, and she would have gone straight to Arya’s rooms- they were the nearest to Sans-  _ Alayne’s-  _ but some sense stopped her from doing so. It paid off a few hours after she’d arrived in her own chambers: there was a knock, and one of her maids announced that Lady Cersei wished to speak to her.

Alayne went pale, her hands stilling in her lap. She kept her head high and nodded to the maids to let her in.

“My lady,” Cersei said as soon as she’d entered. Her golden hair was woven in a net of sparkling rubies, and she looked lovely that morning; but she looked flushed and slightly panicked under her powder. “I’d like to speak to you in private, as soon as possible.”

Alayne frowned. “Leave us,” she told the maids, and turned back to Cersei. “Go ahead, my lady.”

“No. Not here.” Cersei offered her arm. “Please, accompany me to- my chambers. I’d like you to meet some people, talk over some things.”

_ Threaten me into compliance, you mean. _

“Of course,” said Alayne, rising to her feet. 

Cersei led her through the empty hallways, past her usual visiting chambers and directly into a small room that likely served as a study. Alayne felt her blood freeze at the sight before her: Jaime and Tyrion Lannister occupied two chairs, each wearing twin frowns, which was worrying enough on its own- but standing behind them, looking supremely unimpressed, was Tywin Lannister.

Alayne could easily convince Joffrey and his mother, and likely Ser Jaime as well if it came down to it, but Tyrion and Tywin Lannister were known for their cunning. Her task had just gotten exponentially more difficult.

_ You are a girl who has survived,  _ she thought, and nodded her head graciously.  _ You are a girl who has no love for her betrothed. You are a girl who is adrift, and searching for guidance. You are a dove, in this room. Hide your claws, little one, and sheathe your beak. You have one task ahead of you, and one task alone: _

_ Survive. _

…

“Joffrey tells me that he told you of our- cause,” began Cersei, clicking the door shut behind them. 

Alayne nodded, eyes large and blue and guileless. “He did. And then I pledged my love of him, my lady- it was as in the songs. He is so  _ kind,  _ did you know? Oh, and so handsome!”

_ You,  _ thought Cersei,  _ are an empty-headed chit with nothing but an army behind you to endear you to us. Joffrey would not have so much as  _ looked  _ at you without my pushing. You are a means to an end, and as soon as we’ve crushed the Targaryens we’ll bring you to heel as well. _

Everyone else seemed to have a similar view of Alayne. Tyrion’s eyes gleamed with sharp humor, and Jaime’s with his usual contempt; her father, however, remained as blank as a swept slate.

“You love him?” Tywin asked coolly.

Alayne nodded again. “I’ll always love him, my lord. Our love is as if it were written in the stars, it runs so true.”

“Then- you love him enough to marry him?”

For a long moment, Alayne hesitated; Cersei felt the tension in the room spike abruptly. If she answered wrongly, Cersei knew that Alayne would not leave it alive. She let her weight lean against the door, ready for the hysterics-

“I am still betrothed to Prince Jon,” said Alayne slowly. “I would not… I will not break a contract to which I have agreed. It is not honorable. But if a king were to rescind the betrothal, my lord, I would not look back.”

_ Gods save us from an Arryn’s honor. _

Tyrion leaned forward. “So you don’t love Jon Targaryen.”

“He is a blasphemer,” Alayne replied, blushing prettily at the blunt words, for all that she didn’t rescind them. “He holds no love for me, only insult. What call have I to offer him more?”

“By what shall you show that love?” Tywin asked.

“I… do not understand.”

“If you join us in marriage,” said Tyrion, “you join not only two people. You join two realms. What my lord father means to say is that-”

“-that our lord father can speak for himself,” Cersei finished. 

Tywin nodded to her in scant acknowledgement, and turned back to Alayne. 

“For all my son’s crassness, he speaks truly.” He braced himself on two arms, staring at Alayne as a lion would its prey. “We need more than love, Lady Alayne. Offer us something more valuable to commanders like myself.”

“Like gold?” Alayne asked dubiously. “Compared to the Westerlands, my lord, I have none.”

“Then what  _ do  _ you have?”

She frowned, thinking it through. Cersei felt her disgust rise higher as Alayne’s brows furrowed- it wasn’t as if it were terribly difficult. The simplest fool could have done it quicker.  _ This  _ was what they wanted her precious son to marry? 

“Men!” She said finally, eyes shooting up to meet Tywin’s. “I’ve knights, my lord, good ones, honorable ones. If I command it, they’ll surely answer your call.”

Tywin nodded, satisfied. This was what he’d wanted from the beginning, and he’d gotten precisely that.  _ Little Alayne Arryn proves more malleable than thought,  _ Cersei thought spitefully.  _ Next he’ll try to get a brainless fool to marry me, as if near two decades chained to that Baratheon oaf wasn’t enough. _

Alayne rose, swept a curtsy, and left. She didn’t look back, and had almost left Cersei’s chambers when Cersei remembered her father’s orders before- she grabbed the girl and drew her back.

“I’ll have you moved closer to our quarters,” she said, vainly trying to keep the disgust from her voice. “It doesn’t do to be so far from Joffrey, does it?”

Alayne’s face split into a smile. “Thank you, my lady!” 

She hugged her-  _ hugged her-  _ and waltzed away.

Cersei resisted the urge to go scrub herself in her bath and returned to her study, where her brothers and father yet remained.

“That was simpler than expected,” murmured her father.

Tyrion frowned. “I’m not sure it was. She’s smarter than she looks- she knew very well what she was getting into, for all her airheaded chatter.”

“Love makes fools of us all,” said Jaime wryly.

Their father nodded curtly. “Indeed. And best we take advantage of it when we can, isn’t it?” 

“That girl’s an idiot.” Cersei scoffed. “I’d name her thrice a fool and only twice in love- the rest is all her own stupidity. But we got the Vale out of that stupidity, didn’t we?”

_ And in only a few weeks’ time, the Targaryens will know what it is to feel a lion’s claws. You’ve humiliated my father and my mother, you’ve refused  _ me,  _ and you’ve tried to do further damage to our line. A Lannister always pays their debts- and you’ll never see this vengeance coming. _

…

Cersei had Sansa’s belongings moved closer to her chambers, and on the way she scrutinized all the pieces of jewelry Sansa’d brought, all the clothes she had lying on top of her trunk.

“You could be acceptable if you  _ tried,”  _ she said with a disdainful sniff, turning away.

_ Acceptable,  _ thought Sansa.  _ Acceptable. _

She bowed her head. “These were the fashions in the Vale, my lady.”

“Clearly the Vale is made of fools.” Cersei’s eyes darted towards Sansa, and then away. “If you are to be Joffrey’s wife, you must be nothing but the best.”

_ Nothing will ever satisfy your precious son- or yourself. _

“Of course, my lady.”

Cersei watched her belongings- faded cotton, solid wool, plain linens- with a disdainful eye. Sansa bowed her head meekly and kept her fingers closed tight on a vial made of red glass. She kept her eyes level on Cersei’s and not on the mud-stained servant’s clothing at the bottom of her trunks. 

…

Sansa stopped seeing Arya.

It was far too dangerous to attempt such a thing, particularly after moving so much nearer to the Lannisters. And after Sansa sent a raven to Lord Royce, asking to call the banners quietly, she’d been watched by the Lannisters closer than ever.

_ One false move,  _ thought Sansa,  _ and they’ll kill me. _

But she was left alone for the first time in weeks- Cersei was busy over something else, and the other ladies had already retired to their own rooms. Hands shaking slightly, she slid into a gown of dull brown wool and braided her hair into the quiet, unobtrusive fashion she’d seen numerous servants wear. 

There was only one way Sansa could think of to escape the Lannisters: find any secrets that they hid, and  _ get out  _ quietly, quickly. The easiest way to do that, as she saw it, was to enter Lord Tywin’s study- and the best disguise while doing so was as a serving girl.

She headed to the kitchens, bustling in importantly; just as she’d suspected, the other maids and cooks didn’t pay attention to anyone who looked like they knew what they were doing. Carefully, she assembled a tea tray.

“What’re you doin’?”

Sansa turned, shoulders automatically hunching inwards. “Makin’ a tea tray,” she stammered. “Lord- Lord Tywin asked for one.”

_ “Did  _ he,” said the man- he was big, built like a stone wall. 

Sansa bit her lip and nodded.

“An’ you’re makin’ one for him. Such… niceties, ain’t it, Marda?” A black-haired girl behind him barely looked up, but she nodded anyways. The man leaned forward. “But let me say this to you now, little girl: I don’t give a flying fuck whether the Lord himself comes down here and orders twenty maids to cook here. This is  _ my  _ kitchen, and newcomers ain’t welcome.” He glared at her. “Now _ get out.” _

“Yes,” squeaked Sansa, and ran.

Out in the hallway, she drew against a wall, heart thudding against her ribs. Sansa felt numbed, her nerves frayed; she prayed that nobody remembered her. Her hands trembled, and she felt wrecked. Only minutes into this, and she’d already failed miserably.

Eyes closed, she heard footsteps- from her position, she saw a black-haired woman stomp forwards irritably. In her hands, she held a tea tray.

_ Can you do this?  _ Sansa asked herself, and remembered Cersei’s narrowed eyes, Tywin’s rage, Joffrey’s easy, unthinking cruelties.  _ No: I  _ must  _ do this.  _

She sidled forwards.

“I can do the serving,” she mumbled to her. 

Marda turned, and looked down at her tray, before looking back at Sansa. “This goes to Lor’ Tywin,” she told her.

Sansa nodded. “I can do it.”

Marda looked utterly relieved, and didn’t even hesitate to shove the tray at Sansa before heading away. Sansa watched her leave and then hefted the tray; she breathed deep and headed into Lannister territory. After a bit of creative jamming, she undid Lord Tywin’s lock and stepped into the room. 

She placed the tray on the desk and snuck behind it, rattling the drawers as quietly as she could, trying to find something unlocked. A moment later, she heard a rhythmic sound; she frowned and looked up as it abruptly increased.

A moment later, a set of doors off of the study burst open. Sansa snatched up the tray and stepped closer-

Cersei and Jaime spilled out of the other room, kissing furiously. Cersei’s gown was half-unlaced, and Jaime’s tunic was missing altogether, and- and-

And it was altogether more skin than Sansa ever wanted to see.

Her high, choked sound of surprise made them pause, and Jaime turned to see who it was. Sansa bit down on a higher, sharper squeak, dropped the tea tray, and fled.

…

Cersei entered the rooms, moving with her usual, stiff-necked grace. 

_ You are Alayne,  _ she thought, watching Cersei through her eyelashes.  _ You are not Sansa, not here. You’ve nothing to fear from your future goodmother. _

The thought of Cersei being her goodmother left a shudder running down Alayne’s spine. 

After a moment, she breathed deep and let the fears fall away. She straightened her back and set aside her sewing. Alayne rose to her feet and smiled at Cersei, and there was nothing at all of fear in her eyes when she did so.

…

The next morning, Alayne was issued an invitation for breakfast with the King. Alayne waited, as if for permission; Cersei hesitated to give it. If Alayne went, it’d be far too easy for her to tell them what had happened. The Lannisters were gambling too much to lose to the Targaryens on the weakness of a single girl. If she didn’t go, however, it’d raise suspicions.

“Must I go?” Alayne asked, voice edging upwards into a whine. “I… I don’t want to talk to him.  _ Please,  _ my lady, let me-”

“Don’t be a fool,” snapped Cersei, looking a strange mix of irritable and gleeful- irritated at Alayne’s idiocy; gleeful at Alayne’s expense. “You shall go, and you shall keep your head down, do you understand?”

_ I understand better than you ever will. _

“Yes,” whispered Alayne, meek, cowed, wilting under Cersei’s withering words. 

…

Breakfast, however, was uneventful.

Queen Elia and Princess Rhaenys were both in Dorne, as they went every few months; Prince Aegon was in Dragonstone; Queen Lyanna, of course, was in Winterfell. With only Jon and the King there for the breakfast, it was terribly quiet.

Jon was as awkward as he’d been on the trip from the Vale, and the King barely acknowledged her presence- he had a number of documents spread out over the table and there were a variety of counselors that came and went, murmuring in the King’s ear. Alayne picked at her food; there was no other sound at the table save for Jon’s chewing.

A few minutes later, a man stalked into the room and, without pausing for the King to acknowledge him- as all the others had- handed him a parchment. The King read it quickly, and then paused and read it again, slower.

“Is this true?” He asked loudly.

Alayne went still. Jon, beside her, paused in his eating before continuing, hunching over his bowl and shoveling the food in his mouth.

“An unfortunate event,” said the man, bending his head close to the King’s. “There was a girl found in the sewers close to the kitchens an hour ago- identified by the smell. Her throat was cut, but… not before she was tortured.”

“A serving girl?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The King frowned. “Any reasoning?”

“She was pretty enough.” The man shrugged. “Black hair, green eyes. Called herself Marda. Could be that-” he trailed off into whispers. “-Though there’s no evidence.”

_ Black hair. Marda. I know this. _

Alayne tried to breathe. It felt like there was a knife sticking in her chest. Her chair skidded against the flagstones, and she choked something out about being excused. Without waiting for permission, she picked her skirts up and  _ ran. _

_ Black hair. Green eyes. Called herself Marda. _

_ The girl sent to bring a tray to Tywin Lannister’s study. The girl that everyone knew would be there. I’m only alive by sheer luck. The Lannisters are willing to kill- _

Which she’d known. But even in Cersei’s study, Sansa hadn’t been so afraid. The lies had come easy, and for all that Tywin Lannister looked dangerous, he also looked old. Sansa had bitten her tongue and played an air-headed girl, and they’d believed her without any issues. With the reality of her position thrown directly in her face, however, it changed from alarming to petrifying.

Had she eaten anything, it surely would have come out by now.

_ Run,  _ thought Sansa, wildly.  _ Run as far, as quick as you can. _

“My lady?” A hand, warm and large, rested between her shoulderblades. 

Sansa blinked, and looked up. Jon stood beside her, half-bent over her kneeling body. His eyes were warm and grey and worried, and she felt the tension rise inside of her again. Frantically, she dug around to bring Alayne- sharp-tongued, dismissive,  _ proud  _ Alayne- but before she could, Jon’s hands rubbed a circle against her back and she felt her something softer rise up in response.

“Are you alright?” He asked gently.

“I…” She felt her gut clench again, and the truth rise- she wasn’t strong enough to stop it. “No,” she whispered helplessly.

Jon’s eyes softened. “Alright,” he said, firmly, and pulled her up. 

Sansa let him lead her further into the castle- this was the Targaryen’s private wing, and she’d never been here before. They ended up in a small, circular room, just large enough to sit without brushing knees; high enough that Sansa felt, for just a heartbeat, utterly homesick.

“I come here when I feel… tired. Or angry. Or sad.”

_ Or afraid. _

“There was a room off of the Moon Tower,” said Sansa, brushing at the cloth across her knees. “It’s why they called it that, actually. It was a small room, and there’s a small place where it’s made entirely of painted glass rather than stone. Every night that you go there, the moon makes it look like a hundred stars are painted on the floor. It is- lovely.” 

“When you live in King’s Landing,” Jon replied, reaching out and taking her hand, “you learn to love the smallest beauties.”

Sansa curled over her torso, as undignified as she hadn’t allowed herself to be since Alayne leapt off the Eyrie. There was a girl who’d died, only an hour previous, because Sansa wasn’t brave enough to speak the truth. There were two golden-haired monsters only a few hallways away, waiting for her to falter. She felt a sob catch in her throat, because she couldn’t tell the truth, even now- she didn’t trust Jon enough. She didn’t trust  _ anyone  _ enough.

_ And without trust, I won’t be able to escape. _

“I’ve moved closer to the Lannister quarters,” Sansa said suddenly, quickly, afraid her newfound courage would fail her if she didn’t spit the words out. “I… my lord, I- have a suspicion. No proof-”  _ No proof save my own two eyes.  _ “-but… this isn’t groundless.” She inhaled, short and shallow. “I believe Lord Joffrey Baratheon’s father isn’t Robert Baratheon. I believe Lady Cersei has carried on an affair for the past decades.”

“What?” Jon asked, startled. “With who?” 

Sansa stared at the ground instead of his eyes. “Her twin,” she said, almost soundless. “Ser Jaime Lannister.”

“Not a chance,” Jon said immediately. “Father’s outlawed incestuous relationships for almost fifteen years, my lady.” His eyes met hers, kind and wry. “As soon as he’d finalized Aegon and Rhaenys’ betrothal, actually. The Lannisters are close, I’ll give you that, but… not enough for that. And even if they  _ were-  _ they’re Tywin Lannister’s children. Neither would risk losing the Stormlands by engaging in such an act, that you can be assured of. 

_ Is that so?  _

Sansa dredged up a smile, and nodded. “I suppose it was- everything,” she said, bright and false as gilted veneer, “The tensions, the secrets; hearing that a serving girl was so- brutally murdered- startled me.”

“Of course,” said Jon, and Sansa rose to her feet.

“Good day,” she said, and left.

…

“My lady,” called Lord Tyrion.

Alayne turned and nodded to him. “My lord,” she said evenly. “How are you doing?”

“I wished to speak to you of your- entrance, into the family.” He placed a wine flask onto the table next to him.

“What of it, my lord?” Alayne asked, perfectly confused.

Tyrion arched an eyebrow. “My nephew isn’t one that you’d like to marry, my lady, and my sister’s far worse. Don’t presume that their beauty outweighs their cruelty.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” said Alayne, lips twitching, hands clenching in the safe, concealing volume of her skirts. “Why, it all sounds like a cruel jape, my lord! And- even if it were true- what could I do of it?” 

She smiled at him patronizingly. Ser Jaime called her name- they were starting to ride out on a hunt- and Alayne started to move away.

“Run,” said Tyrion, low and fierce. “Run, and don’t look back.”

_ You will never know how much I wish to follow your advice, Lord Tyrion. But I’ve come too far for that. _

Alayne inhaled, and it was only the sting of her nails cutting into her palm that stopped the desire from showing. She pushed her braid over her shoulder and under the momentary shield, made sure her face was blank. 

“I am loyal to Lord Joffrey,” said Alayne, “my one true love.”

…

The week before the coup, Lady Alayne approached Jon.

“I’d love to go hawking sometime soon,” she told him.

Jon agreed easily, and the next time she spoke to him Alayne approached Jon again.

“Might we go hawking on the morrow?” She asked.

“I’d like that,” said Jon.

Alayne smiled, relief shining through for a heartbeat. If Jon was out hawking on the morrow, then he wouldn’t be captured. He’d have ample warning to escape. 

“I shall meet you outside the gates, then,” she said, and walked away.

…

Sansa drafted the letters quickly. 

She threw a dark hood over her hair and snuck through the hallways to the Rookery. Sansa’d watched Alayne, who had been responsible for any communication into and outside of the Eyrie when the maester fell ill, which had been often; and they used the same system here in King’s Landing. She released the ravens easily enough: first, to Dragonstone, to warn Prince Aegon; then to Sunspear, to warn Queen Elia and Princess Rhaenys; and lastly to Winterfell, to warn Queen Lyanna.

It was the most she could do. It was the most she knew how to do.

_ Let this be enough,  _ she prayed, and left as quietly as she’d come.

It was back in the halls, head bowed and walking swiftly, that she came across Eddard Stark.

_ Oh, gods. Arya. Bran.  _ Sansa wanted to believe they wouldn’t be killed, but she’d heard Joffrey sneer about wolf-bitches too many times to do so. There was bad blood between the Lannisters and the Starks, and if Sansa simply stood and watched, Arya and Bran would pay the price.

Sansa bit her lip and held very still, watching Lord Stark come closer.

_ Stranger take me,  _ she swore under her breath, and stepped forwards, catching Lord Stark’s arm in her own. Hopefully nobody would recognize the Arryn heir under her servant’s clothing.

“My lord,” she said lowly, not bothering to wait for his reciprocal greeting. “Listen to me very carefully: you must run. Leave the castle tonight, without pause. Take the clothes on your back and do not look behind you.”

“What?” He asked, looking startled.

Sansa dug her nails into his arm. “You heard me. There is no room for hesitance, not here, not now. The Lannisters know you to be a loyalist. There will not be any mercy shown to  _ anyone.  _ Please, I beg of you- heed my words. Take your children, and leave.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“I- cannot tell you.” Sansa sent him a helpless, frustrated look. “Please-”

“Then,” he said suspiciously, “why are you offering me this information?”

“Because I know your daughter,” Sansa said flatly. “I know her well enough that I’d like her to survive.”

He frowned, and Sansa could see the sudden realization in his eyes. Nobody had ever accused Lord Stark of being slow. 

“And what of the others?” He demanded. “The King, his son-”

Sansa shook her head and stepped away. “I cannot tell you more.”

“Jon is my  _ sister’s son-” _

“Prince Jon is to be out hawking tomorrow,” she said impatiently. “He will be outside of the castle walls when- it occurs. He will be  _ safe.  _ And I truly cannot tell you more, my lord. If you wish to do anything more than die fruitlessly, than leave your family alone, than watch your  _ children die-  _ leave. Now. And do not look back.”

…

The next morning, Alayne woke up slowly. 

She kept herself in full view of the Lannisters, her eyes downcast and demure. Her maids- changed from the Targaryens the King had ordered to Cersei’s own Lannister ones- brushed out her hair and pinned it up in Cersei’s own fashion. She wore a gown of Lannister crimson and Arryn white, a cloak dark as falcon wings stretching behind her.

She approached Joffrey while he sat on the Iron Throne. He pressed a cold kiss to her cheek and smiled triumphantly. There was still blood staining the flagstones- Kingsguard blood.

“We’ve done it,” he said. “We’ve taken the Iron Throne. Rhaegar’s imprisoned in his own chambers, and we’ll kill the Targaryens one by one. What do you say, my lady?”

Alayne brushed a golden lock from his face. “I say that a crown suits you, my lord.”

“And you. You’ll watch me slay the Targaryens, won’t you?”

“I’ll sit behind you for every execution,” Alayne reassured him.

“Good.” He looked away as a commotion began at the far end of the throne room. Alayne let herself sag slightly as soon as his attention turned from her. “What is this?”

Three men in Lannister armor strode in. They carried, between them, a skinny, dirt-stained urchin. Alayne felt her heart stop when she recognized the urchin:  _ Arya. _

“A Stark bitch,” snarled one of the men. 

As they watched, she writhed, trying to escape their grip. Alayne smothered the distressed gasp that threatened to rise up her throat. Arya had a bloody cut across her forehead, and an expression of sheer rage on her face as she beheld Joffrey; when she saw Alayne behind him, she went red.

“Jon’s your  _ betrothed,  _ you-” she trailed off, speechless with the rage.

“He was,” Alayne agreed, chest aching.  _ I told your father to take you and run. Why didn’t he?  _ “He is soon going to be imprisoned. I love Lord Joffrey, Lady Arya. Our love runs deep as the Eyrie is tall.”

Joffrey’s hand came up and squeezed her arm. Alayne couldn’t repress a shudder; she disguised it as happiness and leaned into him.

“Now,” said Joffrey, “where is your father?”

“Gone,” Arya spat defiantly. “Gone, with my brother and our direwolves. You won’t ever find them.”

Joffrey’s face twisted, hand tightening on Alayne’s arm to the point of pain. Alayne knew, almost before he ordered it, that he’d tell the knights to take Arya’s head. 

_ I will not let that happen. _

“She is a Stark,” Alayne commented, in a disaffected drawl. “For all her…  _ treason,  _ she yet holds the blood of a Great House. Use her as a bargaining chip, my lord, and bring the Starks into the fold. Spilling such blood is- entirely unnecessary.”

After a long pause, Joffrey nodded.

Alayne could not relax. She could not do anything more than watch, heart in her throat, as Arya was dragged away. She could only see the hatred in Arya’s eyes, that mirrored the loathing in her own.

_ Forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself. _

…

Sansa turned and threw herself onto the bed, body shaking with sobs.

Joffrey’s kisses were cold. Cersei despised her, and she was certain that once the Vale had joined the Lannister forces, she’d be quietly poisoned- if she were lucky. She’d seen the suspicion grow on Cersei’s face, as first Jon- who’d gone hawking, ostensibly, with half the Kingsguard and his uncle Viserys- and then Aegon, and then both Elia and Rhaenys evaded capture; Sansa’d watched, coldly, forcibly contemptuous, as Janos Slynt was accused of warning the Targaryens and summarily executed.

(Janos Slynt had killed three loyalist children from the Riverlands under Joffrey’s orders- Slynt hadn’t hesitated once, and when their blood stained his sword, when Joffrey clapped and cheered, he  _ smiled. _

Sansa held no regrets for his death, but that didn’t stop her from stifling her screams into her pillows during the night.)

What had saved Sansa’s skin was the capture of Rhaella and Daenerys in the Westerlands. Sansa remembered Jon’s confessions of his aunt and grandmother- their kindnesses, their gentleness- and she wished she could have saved them all.

She kept her head down, her eyes dry. She hid Jon’s dagger in her heavy skirts and pressed empty kisses to Joffrey’s wormy lips. Sansa closed her eyes and breathed deep, and kept herself alive by strength of will alone.

…

A fortnight later, Jon returned with a force of loyal men from Rosby and Duskendale. He led a valiant charge against the Lannister forces, but Jaime rallied his forces- and Viserys paid the price. 

Jon was captured.

Sansa put aside her sewing and murmured some excuses to the ladies in earshot. She slipped out of the room and hurried to the throne room, feeling her heart skip a beat; what if she were too late? 

And then she entered the throne room, and there was no one there.

“Where is King Joffrey?” She demanded from a passing servant. 

The girl looked back at her, a little frightened. “I- I dunno, m’lady- there was- this man, and the King got a little- angry. You know. He dragged him out.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed in thought. 

If Joffrey got angry, he got cruel. And if he got angry at  _ Jon-  _ there was only one way to hurt him.

_ You know exactly where he is. _

Jon loved Arya, and everyone in court knew it. Joffrey would want to hurt Jon as deep as he could- which meant hurting Arya. And if Joffrey hurt Arya, everything Sansa’d done since the beginning would be for nothing.

She turned on her heel and ran.

…

Arya was sulking in a set of rooms set aside for highborn hostages when Joffrey stormed inside.

At first, she was irritated; Cersei had already come and tried to threaten her into compliance. Did they think her son could frighten her more?

And then Arya looked closer, and she saw that Joffrey dragged, behind him, another man- it took her an embarrassingly long time to recognize Jon. Almost against her will, she felt herself start forwards, hands stretching out to catch Jon; it was only when the other women- Riverlander hostages- started screaming that she realized that Joffrey held a naked sword, and was pointing it at her.

“Get out,” he snapped at the women, and they barely hesitated before fleeing. Arya didn’t even bother moving, and Joffrey didn’t bother telling her to.

“Please,” she said, trying hard to appear calmer than she was. “Please, Joffrey, let him go.”

Joffrey didn’t look back at her. He dragged Jon further into the room, the sword pressing against Jon’s throat, and then kicked at his legs until Jon fell to his knees with a muffled grunt.

“Joffrey,” Arya said again, stepping closer.

He glared at her, holding up his sword threateningly; Arya froze.

“Shut up!” Joffrey snarled, and then turned back to Jon. “Do you see, you Targaryen bastard? I’ll take your father’s head. I’ll leave all you Targaryens strung up on these walls, and then I’ll take your precious little Stark family and do the same to them.” He started towards Arya, eyes gleaming. “Let’s see if little she-wolves bleed the same red, why don’t we?”

Jon struggled against his bonds, face purpling. “I’m not the bastard here,” he spat out, finally. “Everyone knows who  _ your  _ father is,  _ Lannister!” _

Joffrey looked back at him and went red. 

…

Alayne skidded into the room, heart pounding in her throat.

Jon knelt in the middle, upright by sheer stubborn will, she was certain; and Joffrey was punching and kicking him furiously. Arya, not ten feet away, was watching, horrified.

_ “Stop,”  _ she heard a voice say- no,  _ scream- _ after a moment, she realized it was her own.

Joffrey paused, panting, and Alayne stepped closer to him.

“What are you doing?” She asked. Her hands trembled as she took in Jon- he was hazy-eyed, blood streaking his face and dirt smeared all over his chest. He wasn’t breathing properly. She turned back to Joffrey. “Joffrey- what have you  _ done?” _

“He called me a bastard,” said Joffrey, low and furious. “I’m being merciful right now.”

“A bastard?” Alayne asked, high and scraping.

_ Oh, you fool. You couldn’t have kept believing I was mistaken about the Lannisters’ incest for just a few more hours? _

She scoffed and prayed he wouldn’t notice her still-shaking hands. “You must know that he was trying to infuriate you.”  _ I need to get you out of here, or gods know what will happen. _ “Now, come, let’s leave him. We’ll offer him a clean execution- so there’s no doubt he’s dead. Please-”

Jon stared up at her, betrayal stark on his face. She refused to flinch.

“He’s a second son,” Joffrey bit out, and she felt her stomach sink at the tone. He was set on a path, and wouldn’t be dissuaded. “I’ll give the public execution to Aegon, if we ever find him. But this Northern bastard deserves no such honor.”

Alayne bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough she tasted blood.

“I’ve taken your crown, your lands, your betrothed.” Joffrey sneered down at Jon and started to lift his sword. “I’ll take your head,  _ bastard,  _ and throw your body onto the walls as a feast for the crows. Not a one will remember you.”

She was Alayne Arryn, who cared nothing at all for those who betrayed her. She was Alayne Arryn, who loved only her own blood. She was Alayne Arryn, the girl who refused to allow the Targaryens control over her, the girl vicious enough to die for her rage.

_ Alayne is dead. _

She felt herself scrabble for the dagger, strapped to her waist by a clever fold of cloth as she’d done for weeks. She felt herself move forwards, unsheathing the dagger with a flick of her wrist, on silent feet.

_ I,  _ she thought, head up, hands unshaking,  _ am Sansa Stone. _

You must not hesitate, Jon had told her. Sansa inhaled slowly, hefted the knife in her hand, and slid it straight into the back of Joffrey’s neck.

…

Arya heard Alayne tell Joffrey to leave Jon for a public execution. The rage she felt, then, was among the purest emotions she’d ever had; it thrummed in her chest like a harp. She’d offered Alayne help, offered her a dye; she’d kept her secrets.

_ I will claw you apart. _

And then Joffrey brushed her off, lifting his sword to  _ execute Jon,  _ and she felt herself tense, ready to leap at him-

But Joffrey’s sword never fell. It rose and rose, past the position that ought have been the highest point of the arc; and then it fell, backwards, along with Joffrey’s own body. 

Arya moved closer to see what had happened, and saw the blood bubble out of his lips. She choked, and then heard Alayne make a thin, distressed sound. 

The girl was pale as the moon, her eyes wide and horrified. Arya blinked at her, and then turned back to Jon, slicing through his bonds quickly. He slumped over when his hands were released, and might well have fallen had she not supported him. When Arya turned back to Alayne, she was still staring at Joffrey numbly; as Arya watched, she shifted her attention to her hands, inspecting them as if they belonged to someone else. They shook, Arya realized; and beyond that, there was a single drop of blood clinging to a finger that Alayne had been too slow to avoid.

_ She’ll die if I leave her here. _

“Alayne,” said Arya, stepping forwards as Alayne’s face went impossibly whiter, pale enough to make milk envious. “Alayne, you have to-”

Alayne turned away from her contemplation. 

“Don’t call me that,” she said lowly.

“...call you what?”

_ “Alayne,”  _ she spat. “That- that isn’t my name.”

Arya drew back. “Then what should I call you?”

“Sansa.” Her eyes were very blue when she looked up at Arya. “Just- Sansa.”

“Alright.” She reached for Jon, but then Alayne-  _ no,  _ Sansa- whipped away from her.

“What are you doing?”

“We can’t stay here,” Arya replied impatiently. “They’ll kill us. Come  _ on-” _

Sansa shook her head. “We won’t get far. Look at him-” she waved a hand at Jon, who did, admittedly, look like he wouldn’t be able to walk anywhere, “-we need to bind his chest. If he rides a horse, he can break his ribs- he can puncture his lungs. He’ll die, if that happens.”

“Then what do you think we ought to do?”

Sansa hesitated. “I don’t kn-” she inhaled sharply. “No, there is. There’s a place we can go. But to get there…” Her hands tightened into fists. “We need something sharp.”

“How’d you kill him?” Arya asked, nodding to Joffrey.

Sansa shook her head. “I can’t. Don’t-”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Arya stepped forwards, ignoring Sansa’s skittish jump; glaring, she dragged Joffrey’s body away from the carpet and shoved it behind a couch, and then knelt, yanking the dagger out of his neck with a sickening squelch. She wiped the blood off on her pants and then handed it back to Sansa.

She took it with an unreadable expression. After a long moment, Sansa began cutting at the layers of her skirts.

“What are you doing?”

“Making cloaks.”

When Sansa’d finished, she tied the cloth off around Jon’s neck with a loose strip of wool, and pulled the top over his head to function as a makeshift hood. Then she did the same to Arya.

“Stay behind me,” she ordered, and they walked out of the room, Jon leaning heavily on Arya.

…

“My brother got drunk,” Sansa told the two guards that stopped her in the hallways. “Oh, gods, he got in a fight too. Please, just let us through- I only want to put him in his chambers.”

With Sansa in near tears, Arya glaring at anyone who got too close, and Jon’s bloody face, nobody paid too much attention to them.

…

Sansa’s hands were shaking. She led Arya past the first two corridors, and turned down another- at that, Arya pulled away. 

“These are Lannister quarters,” she hissed.

“Shut up,” Sansa hissed back. “We can’t-”

“If you betray us, I’ll kill you,” she bit out.

“I  _ killed Joffrey,”  _ Sansa whispered back, suddenly, abruptly, furious. “How much more evidence do you need, that I don't want to hurt you?”

Arya subsided wrathfully.

Sansa led her into a set of rooms further off of the main corridors- all the easier to sneak from, as Sansa’d realized weeks ago- and dug around in a small, unobtrusive cupboard stocked high with medicines.

“Here,” she said, handing a roll of bandages to Arya, but she only stared at it blankly; Sansa huffed and pushed her away so she could start rolling them around Jon’s chest. “There ought to be some wine here- get that. We’ll need to clean some of these wounds soon anyhow. Oh, and there’s a crossbow in another one of the cupboards. Load it.”

It was short work. Sansa finished it easily and then stored him behind a couch, throwing a cloth over his body. For this to work, they couldn’t hesitate. Jon and Arya had to be perfectly hidden. The ruse had to be utterly flawless.

…

Jaime entered his chambers, kicked the door closed, and had unbuckled his cloak when he realized he wasn’t alone. He turned, slightly, and met Alayne Arryn’s level gaze.

“Lady Arryn?” He asked. “What task do you have here?”

“Ser Jaime,” she said, lips twitching in a wan attempt at a smile. “I wish for your assistance.”

“My… assistance?”

“I require horses,” she announced. Jaime wondered where her brainless chatter had gone. “Two of them. And food enough to last a week. I beg of you to ready them.”

He arched an eyebrow. “This ought to be taken to my sister first. She-”  _ controls,  _ he thought; and then,  _ that is far too blunt,  _ “-manages your schedule, does she not?”

“I am asking you, Ser.”

“I cannot.”

She straightened minutely. “You will.”

“Will I?” Jaime asked, amused despite himself. “Might I ask why I would do such a thing, my lady?”

“Because if you do not, I will tell every lord from Queenscrown to Starfall that your relationship with your sister isn’t- _pure.”_ Her eyes caught his, held them. “Do you understand me, Ser?”

“I ought to kill you for that insult,” he breathed, almost stepping forwards.

Alayne didn’t flinch. “If you bare that sword,” she told him, “you will be spitted with an arrow. Watch yourself.”

“And who bears this bow?” Jaime sneered. “A ghost, perhaps?”

“You need not worry about that,” she said coolly. “Arrange the horses. I shall keep my mouth shut if you do the same.”

Jaime’s hands clenched. “Who would believe you? What proof do you have? Nobody will believe a little girl’s words, not when she has nothing to back up her accusations.”

“I am not without evidence,” she replied evenly. “Why, I have one man that will convince the whole of Westeros. Tell me, Ser, what do you think your brother wanted in exchange for his testimony?”

_ No. No. No, this is impossible. Tyrion wouldn’t betray us like this. No- _

“You know nothing of Lannister loyalty,” he hissed, and unsheathed his sword.

Alayne went pale, but before he could move forwards, he felt something slam into the blade; Jaime let go of it with a grunt, and when he looked, he saw a crossbow bolt on the floor. Jaime’s head snapped up to meet hers.

“I do not bluff,” she said coldly. Jaime swallowed. “And hear this: I might not know anything of Lannister loyalty, but I’ve seen  _ everything  _ of Lannister treachery. Ready the horses, or I will send ravens with your brother’s seal and my own to every keep in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jaime breathed deep, searching for some measure of calm.

“What did Tyrion want?” He asked flatly. “To betray us?”

Alayne’s jaw tightened. “Why, a lordship. If you were to be imprisoned, what would stop him from inheriting Casterly Rock?”

“Cersei watched you so closely- when did you even speak to Tyrion?”

“You know, Ser Jaime.” She shook her braid back over her shoulder. “You know: you saw it. We were going hunting, that day. Now:  _ go.” _

Jaime glared at her, and she met his gaze without a hint of shame. 

They’d trusted her, all of them. They’d trusted in her lack of intelligence. They’d trusted in her fear. And she turned Lannister on Lannister, and now she fled the wreckage.

_ I’ll ready the horses. And then I’ll hunt you down, and your lifeblood will stain my blade.  _

Jaime slammed the door on the way out.

…

It was after he’d set up two horses with some food, after he’d gone stalking into the keep, ready to separate  _ someone’s  _ head from their shoulders, that he met Tyrion.

“How dare you?” He snarled, taking his brother by the shoulder and slamming him into the wall behind him. “How  _ dare  _ you, Tyrion? You put your trust in some Arryn whore as if she’s worth more than your own flesh and blood? I ought to kill you here!”

“What’re you talking about?” Tyrion wrenched himself away. “Jaime, are you alright?”

Jaime stared at him, heart thundering in his chest. Tyrion didn’t look anything other than faintly confused- Jaime felt doubt flicker inside of him.

Alayne had said they'd decided it the day the went hunting. She'd looked at him coldly, furiously, and proclaimed that she didn't bluff. She'd taken advantage of his rage, of his shock, of his fear- she'd given Jaime just enough hints, just enough plausibility to fool him, and  Jaime, like an absolute fool, had believed her. 

_ Tyrion's always wanted power, _  he'd thought. But Tyrion wasn't Cersei; he wasn't mindless in his desire for it.

Heart in his throat, Jaime punched the stone wall. Still cursing, he turned and ran down the corridor, towards his rooms. 

_ She lied, _  he thought, the thoughts pounding in time with his feet,  _she lied, she lied-_

He kicked down the door, entering wildly. The room was empty.  Cursing, he raced towards the stables. At least he could cut her off there, keep her from escaping-

The horses were gone as well.

“Jaime!” Tyrion ran forwards, bending half over and panting. “Jaime- what’s  _ happening?"  _ He didn't wait for him to answer. "Cersei's insane, but that isn't altogether surprising.  _You,_ however..."

“I need to get some horses,” began Jaime.

Tyrion shook his head. “You can’t. Cersei’s panicking. Her precious son is missing- and Cersei wants everyone searching for him.”

“Tommen’s missing?”

_ “Joffrey’s  _ missing.”

_ Joffrey… Joffrey’s missing.  _ Jaime felt something snap in his chest. This was why Alayne had come to him as she had, when she had, he was certain of it.  _Alayne Arryn's done something to him._

Tyrion sighed. “And the Stark girl’s missing, as well. So’s the Prince.”

“Jon?”

“Yes.”

_ She doesn't do things by half,  _ thought Jaime. At any other time, it might have been impressed. As it was, there was only a fruitless rage rising in him like a tidal wave.  _We trusted you, Lady Arryn. We trusted you, and you repaid our trust with treachery. Right here, right now, I swear to you: I'll take your pretty little head myself. I swear it, by the old gods, by the new gods, by all the gods who'll hear me._

_Nobody escapes us that easily._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'll be over here, you know, twiddling my thumbs and whistling innocently.
> 
> Next up, we have an ensemble cast featuring Daenerys Targaryen, Petyr Baelish, Roose Bolton, and all the Starks. It'll be fun, I promise!


	3. storge (familial love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your rage is your own, Sansa, but you do not get to name yourself unloved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for (again) minor acts of sexual violence, normal violence, family problems, and Sansa's ingrained trust issues.

**** Daenerys felt her breath catch- Tywin Lannister’s cold stare was terrifying.

“I will not,” she said.

“You shall,” said Tywin. 

Daenerys didn’t bite her lip. She was the daughter of Rhaella Targaryen. She was the sister of the trueborn King of Westeros. She was of the blood of old Valyria, and she would not kneel to some Lannister pretender.

“Shall you drag me into the sept?” She demanded. “Shall you place a red and gold cloak while my hands are bound? For I assure you, I shall not accept this insult quietly.”

“You shall,” repeated Tywin, rising to his feet. 

“Or  _ what?” _

“Or, your mother shall face…  _ consequences.”  _ He arched an eyebrow. “I hear that after your brother’s death, she’s not been the same. It would be a shame if she were to die of that grief, would it not?”

Daenerys felt as if she were punched. She swallowed, hard. After Viserys’ death, Rhaella had gone quieter and quieter. After their imprisonment, she barely paid attention to her surroundings. Daenerys was terrified for her, and Tywin Lannister must have known that.

_ Monsters,  _ she thought bitterly.  _ That is all you are. _

“When do you wish to do the wedding, then?”

“You shall marry Tyrion in a few weeks’ time,” said Tywin satisfiedly.

…

Jon didn’t remember much.

His head was woozy with pain; when it wasn’t, there was something else clouding his thoughts. He remembered flashes: a streak of red, bright as a sunrise; eyes blue as a sunny sky; trees green and brilliant as Tyrell banners. But nothing  _ more. _

Both the first and second times he awoke, he was on a horse- before anyone realized he was awake, he’d lost consciousness. The third time, it was the middle of the night. The fourth, he was propped against a tree trunk and Arya sat in front of him, turning a knife over and over her fingers.

Jon grunted.

At this, Arya looked up, eyes sharp. When she saw he was awake, her wariness faded; she looked relieved, more than anything.

“You’re awake,” she said. “Gods, we were getting worried.”

Jon choked, his chest hacking, when he tried to speak. Arya- rather brutally- shoved him backwards, and forced water down his throat.

“Don’t  _ talk,”  _ she snapped. “No, don’t you dare- just sit back and relax. Your ribs’re already bruised enough, don’t you think?”

Jon subsided resentfully. 

After a moment, she leaned back as well and asked, “What do you remember?”

He made a face at her and shook his head. 

“Nothing?” Arya looked surprised. “Then- do you remember the battle?”

He nodded.

“And- after? In the throne room?”

“Bits.”

“Shut up.” She glared at him until he sighed. “If you talk, I’m not going to tell you what happened. So just- shut up.”

Jon let his lips twist further, resigned irritation writ all over his shoulders. Arya grinned at him triumphantly and settled against the rock.

“So- when Father decided we should leave, he didn’t think very hard about the consequences.” Her eyes narrowed, slightly, and Jon could see her tension, for all that her tone didn’t shift. “He had us almost out of the city when I realized that Nymeria and Summer were still in the kennels. Father wouldn’t stop for anything, though, so I told Bran. He made a small distraction, made Father look at him; I ran. I cut them loose, and both of them escaped. I- didn’t.”

He swallowed, hard, and reached for the waterskin. His breath caught; there was a fierce pain running across his chest as if someone had stuck him with a knife.

_ Maybe someone did. _

After draining the waterskin, he nodded to her to continue.

“Joffrey threw me into some room full of hostages, and, you know, everyone ignored me except for when Cersei entered and tried to threaten me into writing a letter to Robb- I set her straight on that, let me tell you.”

Jon didn’t- quite- choke.  _ If this is what Uncle Ned and Aunt Catelyn face, no wonder they spend most of the time screaming at her.  _ He wasn’t either of her parents, but he still couldn’t shake the desire to yell at Arya: Cersei Lannister might not bear a sword or bow, but she was still more dangerous than most men. Arya’s survival was a measure of luck and latent survival instincts, and while Jon could trust in the latter, the former was too fickle by far.

_ I mean, just  _ hearing  _ of her decisions leave me nauseous.  _

“And then Joffrey dragged you into that room, you called him a bastard, and he started hitting you with his sword.” Arya said it dispassionately, but he could see the grip she had on the knife: white-knuckled and tight. “Alayne entered, then, and told Joffrey that they should leave you alone- that they should give you a public execution instead of one in which it wasn’t clear to the realms that you were dead. Joffrey refused and went to kill you. Alayne- I’m not certain what mood struck her, but she killed him.”

_ “Killed him?”  _ Jon sputtered, sitting straight up. Arya’s eyes flashed with worry, but he didn’t pause. “What the  _ hell?  _ She-”

“-stuck him with your direwolf knife,” said another voice.

Jon turned, slightly, and saw Alayne. Or- someone like her, at least. This girl had a similar bone structure, all high cheekbones and sharp jaw; but her hair was lighter. There were freckles dusting her nose, and her eyes were harder- or maybe the weight in her eyes was due to the difference in her hair.

“Truly?” He asked.

Alayne nodded, and then turned to Arya. “He caught a stag, and needs help getting it here- he asked for you.”

Arya got up immediately. “Where is he?”

“A mile away, close to that stream we saw a few days ago.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Arya strode away. She didn’t look back.

“Where’s she going?”

“There’s been- a lot of changes.” Alayne seated herself, and this, at least, was normal: her straight back, the firm clench of her jaw. “How much do you know?”

“Arya got to you killing Joffrey,” said Jon.

Alayne bit her lip. “That… isn’t very far.”

“I’d think it far enough,” he said flatly. “It isn’t something I’d think you capable of.”

“You did tell me to hold all a dragon’s fire,” said Alayne, slightly amusedly. Then, more sober: “But- well. After that happened, we went. I couldn’t arrange an escape without bringing notice, not even with the Lannisters’ trust; so we did the only thing we could.”

“And what was that?”

“We went to Ser Jaime.”

Jon jerked. “The Kinglsayer?”

“The one and only.” She sighed. “I… threatened him. Arya hid, with a crossbow, as assurance; I told Ser Jaime that if he didn’t arrange for horses I’d release ravens to every keep telling them what his relationship with his sister was.”

“That’s  _ true?”  _ He asked incredulously.

“You didn’t believe it? But you- oh, that was just to irritate Joffrey,” said Alayne, suddenly looking sharply, grimly frustrated. “And you don’t even remember it.” She shook her head and returned to the story. “See: I told Ser Jaime that I had his brother’s testimony as well. We’d already placed bandages around your chest as best we could, and given you milk of the poppy. Ser Jaime believed us and left; Arya took you down to the stables, and realized that we couldn’t keep you steady on a horse- both of us are too slight. So she asked Gendry to come with us.”

He breathed deep. “Gendry’s a- smith. A bastard. I didn’t know she was so close with him.”

Alayne shrugged. “I went to the Rookery while Arya got Gendry and sent some ravens to the Vale as a covering measure. We left quietly, and about a week later we walked straight into a storm. That’s why we’re here, actually; we lost our food in the rain. We needed somewhere quiet to restock, and these woods are safe enough.”

“And… Gendry goes hunting.”

“We help,” she said. 

“Mmm.” Jon frowned. “Arya said something.”

Alayne’s back straightened minutely. Her tone hardened. “Arya says a lot of things.”

“She said that you asked Joffrey to give me a public execution.” He leaned forwards slightly. “You- you were in such a position? To ask such things of the Lannisters?”

“I wanted him out of the room,” she said quietly. “He would’ve continued if I didn’t stop him. So… I tried. When it didn’t work, I killed him.”

Jon shook his head. “That wasn’t what I was asking. I wanted to know- were you a prisoner in King’s Landing?”

She looked at him, and after a long minute, she shook her head.

He leaned back, the stone rough against his back. 

Alayne rolled her shoulders and said, quietly, “I will not apologize for it.”

“No?” Jon asked, breathless with the sudden well of rage. “Tell me, how many people died? How much could have been avoided if you’d just-”

“If I’d  _ what?”  _ She demanded. “Whom should I have told? Whom should I have trusted?”

_ “Me!” _

The shout echoed off of the trees. Alayne met his gaze, steady as a drawn blade.

“You?” She asked lowly. “I tried. I told you about the Kingslayer and Lady Cersei’s incestuous relationship. You immediately-  _ immediately-  _ brushed me off.”

“How could I have known?” He retorted.

“Your first reaction shouldn’t have been to treat me a foolish child!” She snapped, face flushing. Then, forcibly calmer: “Tell me, do you think- do you think your father would have wished us to live in the Vale, after we married?

Jon drew away, startled.  _ This is important to her.  _ After a long moment, he nodded.

“You are the last Arryn. Where else would we go?”

Alayne laughed mirthlessly. “How dare you?” She asked, eyes darkening. “How  _ dare  _ you? You stand there and place their deaths on my shoulders, you stand there and blame me for  _ everything-  _ and all the while you’ve been plotting to take my rights!”

_ “Your _ rights!”

“Yes!  _ Mine.  _ Alayne Arryn was legitimized by King Rhaegar’s own hand as the Vale’s heir. Are you telling me that our marriage wouldn’t place a Targaryen in the Vale?” She shook her head. “I should never have trusted you. What call have I to place my allegiance to your father? To  _ you?” _

“I’m your betrothed. Where is your honor?”

“I,” she hissed, “am a bastard.”

Jon blinked. “What?”

“Oh, your precious Arya hasn’t told you yet?” She tossed her hair, and Jon realized that it wasn’t just a few shades lighter; it was a different color entirely: a red brilliant as a sunrise. “I’m not Alayne Arryn, I’m just the bastard who took up her name when she threw herself off the Eyrie. The Arryn line is done. Finished. So you can’t even say that a perfect lady sacrificed her reputation to save you- you owe your life to an honorless bastard. I hope you go choke on it.”

“You-” he gaped. “I don’t understand. What- you  _ lied.” _

“Not on purpose, not by design- but what does that matter? You’ve already named me guilty, my lord. And it isn’t as if I’ve a lack of sins for you to choose from.” She started to walk away. 

“Come back here,” Jon ordered, low and dark and dangerous.

She looked back at him, and then walked back, stiffly. When she got close enough, she shoved something into his hands and pulled her hair to the side.

“If you want to kill me,” she said, coldly, “do it now.”

Jon looked down. She’d handed him the knife he’d given her, all those months previous.

“I’m not going to  _ kill  _ you,” he said, horrified. “What- what’s your name? Your real one?”

“...Sansa.” 

“Sansa, then.” He exhaled slowly. “You can’t just leave.”

“I’ll name my mistakes,” she told him, jaw set firmly. “I’ll accept them. But I won’t sit quietly while you tar me with a hundred monsters’ crimes. The deaths of everyone who died is on Lannister hands, is on Tyrell hands, is on Baratheon hands.  _ Not  _ on mine.”

Jon shook his head. “How- how can you defend yourself? How can you  _ live  _ with yourself?”

Sansa went pale, but her voice didn’t shake. 

(Jon didn’t see Sansa’s hands. If he had, he might have seen a telltale tremble in them.

You see: Sansa hadn’t lived with herself in many, many moons.)

“I’ve never been loved,” she said abruptly.

He snorted. “I know how that feels.”

“No, you don’t,” Sansa disagreed. “You  _ don’t,  _ Prince Jon. Your father isn’t a measure of the world. Have you forgotten your mother? Your uncle?” She advanced one step, just one foot closer. He felt pinned under the terrible weight of her eyes. “What of Arya, or Bran, or any of their siblings? You are so close to them- they wouldn’t hesitate to put you ahead of the world. Of themselves. They  _ love  _ you.”

“Al- Sansa-”

_ “No.”  _ Her voice cracked, just a little bit. Jon shut up. “I thought- I thought it was enough in the Eyrie. I thought Alayne loved me. But she stood on a ledge six hundred feet above the world and told me that she had nothing left when her parents died. She had her pride, she had an entire realm, she had  _ me-  _ and it wasn’t enough. There is one person,  _ one person,  _ who has said  _ I love you  _ to me. Do you want to know who it was?”

Jon felt something crack in the pit of his stomach. A moment later, he tasted bile across his tongue.

“Joffrey,” said Sansa, blue eyes the exact shade of ice floes in Northern rivers. “It was Joffrey, the night after they took control of King’s Landing. He kissed me in the hall and told me he loved me, and a month later, I killed him.”

It was pity, it was rage, it was fear. It was something twisting together in Jon’s chest, seeing this flame-haired creature stand as tall and proud as any queen without even the inheritance of her blood to match that pride. For a long, aching moment, all he wanted was to catch her in his arms, press a kiss to her lovely lips. He wanted to recoil in hatred, and spit at her in absolute contempt.

_ I am a fool. _

“I’ve never been loved,” she repeated, and rose to her feet. “And you’ll excuse me for taking that lesson to heart.”

“What lesson?”

She didn’t look back at him. “That if I don’t care for myself, there’s not a single other soul that’ll give a damn.”

After a long, breathless moment, Sansa walked away.

…

Three hours later, Sansa climbed a tree and hugged the trunk, feeling the scrape of the bark against her cheek. She stared up at the stars for a long, sleepless night. 

(Sansa cried, the whole long trek to the tree. She had bruises along her knees and elbows, skin scraped off her forearms. She was afraid, and so tired of being afraid.

She was  _ lonely-  _ and Sansa’d never known anything else.)

…

Daenerys looked up at Illyrio.

She was exhausted. After weeks spent trying to coax her mother into something resembling consciousness, after surrendering to the Lannisters- she was frightened, and exhausted of it.

Which was why this meeting was so important.

A note slipped into her breakfast, with a few scarce words, two days previous. And here they were, the two of them, the fair-haired Targaryen princess and the sweating, heavy-jowled Pentoshi magister.

“My lord,” she murmured, sweeping a curtsy.

Illyrio bowed. “Your Grace. How are the Lannisters treating you?”

“As you can imagine, I wish to leave.”

“Of course.” He stroked his beard. “I can provide transport.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. The day after. Whenever you wish it.”

Daenerys nodded. “As soon as possible, then. It’ll do some finagling to take my mother out of her rooms- but tomorrow, at dawn- that could work.”

Illyrio frowned. “No, my lady, you mistake me. I have space enough for one person to escape; but not for two. I cannot take both of you.”

_ I am no coward. I will face my dues, as a woman and as a princess.  _ Daenerys lifted her chin proudly, but still it wobbled.  _ I will be a Targaryen to the end, no matter how Tywin Lannister tries to break me.  _

“I will not leave my mother to these butchers, my lord.”

He blinked at her. “Then we are at an impasse.”

“How long shall you remain here? In the Westerlands?”

Illyrio softened slightly. “For some time yet. Make your decisions, Princess Daenerys. I will be here.”

_ My friends call me Dany. _

She smiled tightly and left the half-lit corridor.

_ You,  _ she thought, chin up, proud, wobbling,  _ you are not a friend. But you could be an ally. _

…

Arya had been furious with Sansa. Jon, now, was awake- and he was angrier. Sansa kept her head high and her mouth shut, and they only devolved into shouts twice a day. 

“Another half-day and we’ll be at the Trident,” said Jon.

“And soon after that we’ll be in the North.” Arya bit into her meat and spoke around it, mouth still full. “Hopefully we’ll not be betrayed on the way.”

It wasn’t particularly subtle, but Arya never was. The way she cut her eyes to Sansa, all dark-eyed sly, left an ashen taste in Sansa’s mouth. She’d left the Lannisters and their cold, snake-like words; but she’d only exchanged her prison for another- this time of ice, not gold. It made something cold curdle in her stomach.

“Hopefully,” she agreed blandly, taking perverse pleasure in the frustrated light in Arya’s eyes.

A few minutes later, she got up and started cleaning the camp; Jon and Arya limped away- Jon had had a serious cut along his hamstring, and though Sansa thought it was healing, he still limped- to the river to wash up.

She tossed rocks and dirt over the firepit, and was in the process of scrubbing the straight, thin stick they’d been using as a spit of its blood, when Gendry spoke.

“They’ll come around.”

His voice was deep, with the Crownland accent that neither Jon nor Arya had. Sansa didn’t exactly  _ startle  _ at it- but Gendry rarely spoke, and when he did it was directed almost solely at Arya. She could likely count the number of words he’d spoken to her on one hand.

But he was a bastard, according to Jon; he was a bastard, just like Sansa.

That camaraderie loosened her tongue.

“Will they?” She scrubbed the spit a little too hard, and it snapped. Sansa didn’t bother trying to fix it; she only tossed it into the remains of the fire and glanced back at Gendry. “They don’t look like they will.”

“How long can they remain angry?”

“They’re Starks,” Sansa said dryly. “They’re the most stubborn people you’ll ever meet.”

Gendry huffed. “They’re Starks,” he agreed. “They’re rich, and they’re powerful, and they’re unused to people telling them they’re fools. Though it looks to me like you’ve both a part of the blame- but they’ll never accept that, will they?”

“I don’t owe them anything,” she said, and it sounded weary. “It was the Lannisters or the Targaryens, and what I knew at the beginning was only that the Targaryens were plotting to take the scarce power I still had left to me; the Lannisters offered  _ that  _ information up to me on a gold platter. And then the Lannisters were so  _ cruel-  _ and I knew, I  _ know, _ that when I gave up the Vale soldiers, they’d give me a small poison and bury me with full honors. But I still don’t owe either Jon or Arya anything. And they think I do, and don’t accept that I don’t agree.”

“As I said- they’re not used to people telling ‘em that they’re wrong.”

Sansa sighed. “It won’t matter in the long run anyhow. Soon enough we’ll be in Winterfell, and why would they remember me there? I’ll be lucky to keep my head.”

“You ought to head out to Bear Island,” offered Gendry. “They like strong women, I hear.”

“Strong?” Sansa snorted, undignified. “I’m a bastard who couldn’t keep up the facade for even a year. I killed a man because I  _ panicked.  _ There’s-”

He held up a hand, going still. 

“Do you hear that?”

Sansa tilted her head to the side. For a long moment, there was nothing; and then, slowly, she made out a rhythmic beat.

“Horses,” she breathed.

“Not just horses.” He looked at her, eyes a fraction wider than usual. “Dogs.”

_ Hunting. _

“Where are-”

Sansa scrambled to erase the last of their presence before leaving it for a lost cause. They’d been too complacent; there was no way to un-crush the ferns or spring up the grasses, no matter how much time they had. Based on the steadily increasing sound, they didn’t have anything more than a few minutes- and there wasn’t big game in this area, which everyone would have known. The only thing the hunters could be hunting was  _ them. _

Sansa made a split second decision.

“Go,” she said.

“What?”

_ “Go.”  _ She drew her cloak around her. “He’s a Targaryen prince. She’s a trueborn Stark. They  _ matter,  _ in a way we never will. Go, do you understand?”

“And- what, leave you behind?” He asked incredulously.

“You need to carry Jon,” she said lowly. “I… can’t.”

He strode over to her and gripped her shoulders. “You just said you don’t owe ‘em anything.”

“I don’t.” She breathed deep and looked straight into Gendry’s storm-blue eyes. “The Lannisters kill children. They murder innocents. If the Targaryens ever do something like that, I’m asking you to stop them. But until they do, you’ll keep them safe, alright? You’ll keep them alive, because they’re the only thing stopping the Lannisters from full control.”

“I don’t-”

_ “Promise me,”  _ she said, stepping away, eyes still steady on his. “Promise me, Gendry.”

“Where are you goin’?” 

“Away from you. Take them past the river, the water’ll confuse the dogs.” She hesitated, slightly. “Please, Gendry-”

“Alright. I’ll keep ‘em safe.” He paused. “And if they forget themselves, I’ll remind ‘em.”

“And if they don’t listen to  _ that,  _ too, you’ll kill them.” Sansa kept herself still, heartbeat loud as a drum in her ears, skin taut and thin. 

Gendry bowed his head. “Fine. You- you know that I can’t come back? You’ll be alone.”

_ I’ll be dead. _

“Get them to Winterfell,” she ordered, and then turned, and ran, straight towards a hunting party.

…

Sansa fled in the opposite direction of safety.

Arya had snapped and screamed and snarled, but she’d never called her Alayne, not after she was told Sansa’s true name. She’d shoved a dagger into Jon’s hands and waited for him to kill her for her crimes, and he’d only looked at her, eyes wide, horrified. 

The Lannisters had treated her as a child and as a fool. They’d offered her power and hadn’t bothered to show the poison underneath. They’d made a terrible mistake: intimidating people with gold and glitter worked, but only when that person had something to lose. Sansa held nothing in her palms but her life, but her anger.

She didn’t owe the Starks or Targaryens  _ anything, _ and she’d swear to that for her entire life.

But this wasn’t a debt she was paying, this scrabbling race away from dogs, away from huntsmen, away from safety- this was a life she’d weighed, a life she knew the worth of. This wasn’t a debt. This was Sansa looking into her past and naming the Lannisters cruel, unworthy, undeserving. This was Sansa naming what price she’d pay for their defeat.

…

Back against a tree, Sansa felt a whimper claw up her throat at the sight of the dogs.

The horses came a moment later, and pulled short. The men looked at her carelessly, greedily, and Sansa held painfully still. But there were only five horses here, and she was sure there were more- 

“We’ll find the others,” said one of the men, not even looking at her; directing his words to the others. “They’ll not get to the Trident.”

_ I’ve failed.  _ Sansa felt failure, a peculiar sting right across her chest.  _ They’ll die. And I- _

There was a sudden, sharp pain across the back of her head, and Sansa felt black unconsciousness come up and swallow her.

…

Sansa awoke slowly, head aching. She heard voices; carefully, she shifted so she could listen better and kept her eyes closed, her breathing as even and deep as she could make it.

“The others got away,” one man mumbled. “Milord-”

“It doesn’t matter,” said another. “This one shall do nicely, thank you.”

Slowly, she got up. The world spun around her, before coalescing into a room full of shadows. She turned and saw a thin, small man- he had a sharp jaw and sharper eyes, and Sansa knew him.

_ But Arya and Jon haven’t been captured.  _ She let her hands close on nothing but themselves, the nails biting into her palms, and met his eyes.  _ I’m still alive.  _

_ There’s no one coming for you,  _ whispered Gendry.

Sansa didn’t shudder. She swept a curtsy that trembled at the edges, and dredged up a wan smile for the lord.

“What’s your name?” 

“Sansa,” she whispered.

His lips curved into a smile as thin and empty as Joffrey’s, as Cersei’s, and she didn’t let herself quake, not even a little.

“My name is Petyr,” he told her. “You’re in Harrenhal. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll listen to me. After all- you’re only alive for my mercy.”

“W- why did you save me?”

_ What do you think I owe you? _

“That’s for me to know,” he murmured, as if to himself. “But a few weeks inside should take care of those bothersome freckles.” Then, louder: “Tell me- do you know who you were with?”

_ They’ve escaped.  _

“No,” said Sansa, and oh, oh,  _ oh-  _ it was a lie; but it tasted so sweetly of truth.

…

A few days later, Sansa got out of bed, jiggled the doorknob until it opened, and stepped out of the room. She was- wandering- and definitely lost, when she heard a maid’s mutter, under her breath, something about the lord.

Sansa bit her lip. It had been mumbled, and perhaps she’d heard wrong. Still, though: it wasn’t as if she could leave by simply walking outside. Leaving aside the fact that she was utterly lost, and likely couldn’t so much as find the exit, she  _ definitely  _ couldn’t get a horse. And without a horse, she wouldn’t get to the nearest village before being caught.

The hard truth was this: Sansa didn’t have any weapons, any skills,  _ anything-  _ nothing, as she’d known when she ran, nothing save for her life. She had only one trade left to her, and that was the same one that had eventually succeeded against the Lannisters.

Secrets.

Turning smoothly, she followed the maid past three corridors, down another one; there, the maid entered a room. Sansa hid in an alcove near it, heart pounding; a moment later, she heard the door open and snick shut again. 

She sidled closer to the door and knelt, listening carefully. She could hear Petyr clear enough, and there was another man in the room right then.

“We’ll kill my liegelord soon enough,” said the other man. “Tywin Lannister’s promised both a marriage and the realm if we succeed. Tell me, do you know how much longer I must bend the knee?”

“A little while yet, Lord Bolton,” replied Petyr silkily. “Many things are fluid, right now. They ought to be taken care of soon enough, however, and your kneeling days will be finished then.”

_ Gods,  _ thought Sansa.  _ I pity the poor man who the Boltons kneel to. They’ll not expect this betrayal. _

“What’re you doin’ here?”

She whirled around, hand pressed against her chest, and saw two guards start forwards.

_ This is what you forgot.  _

“I wasn’t-”

One of the guards just- reached out, and slapped her. It was thoughtless, and even as Sansa crumpled to the floor she noted that he didn’t so much as pause beside her. The door crashed open, and Petyr stood before her.

His irritation cooled and hardened when he saw her.

“Take her to her rooms,” he ordered one of the maids, who bowed her head. “Lock her in, and I shall come to see her once I am free.”

…

“If you ever disobey my words like that,” said Petyr, eyes cold, face colder, “I’ll have you thrown in one of my brothels. I’ll ensure you never see sunlight for another three decades, do you understand me?”

Sansa bit her tongue, hard enough that copper flooded over it, stinging and acrid. The bruise throbbed against her cheek, and she couldn’t stop the fear from showing. Petyr’s lips curled upwards, as if satisfied, at the sight.

“So you’ve heard of them,” he said. “Good. Then you’ll know to take my warnings to heart.” His hand came up under her chin, and Sansa’s breath caught-

_ joffrey, his lips, his kisses, his cold, dead, fish eyes _

“-do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

…

Sansa was locked in a small room, a floor above the ground. There was a window, but it had bars running across it; Petyr had left her with a small desk and a bed, and that was all. She embroidered, sometimes, and at others she stared out of the window. There were flower bushes planted right outside, and the scent came up in the mornings; it was sweeter than rose, something almost sickly in its strength. 

It was mind-numbing. It was  _ terrifying.  _

She wrestled the panic back, but every hour that passed, it got harder.

…

She was almost asleep when she heard a faint rapping at the window.

Sansa turned and looked, and let out a shriek when she saw the pale hand tapping the glass. A moment later, she reached out a shaky hand and pushed it open.

“W- who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter.” The man grunted. She heard a faint scraping sound, and then he said, “What’s your name, girl?”

“Sa- Sansa.”

He sighed, and then, after a long pause, he said, “There was a dagger. The blade was pale as bone, and the hilt was black as night. Tell me, what was the pommel made of?”

Hope slowly lit up Sansa’s stomach, coming to a stop in her throat.

“A direwolf,” she said. “A- a snarling direwolf.”

There was another long silence, and then the man hissed something that sounded like a curse.

“Is your door locked?”

“I- yes.”

“Do you have any furniture in there?”

Sansa glanced back at the desk. “Yes.”

“Furniture you can move?”

_ I can move- the chair, definitely, and perhaps the desk. And if I shove the bed… _

“Yes.”

“Good. Go do that, alright?”

There was a rasping sound as she began dragging the furniture closer to the door, but Sansa resolutely didn’t look behind her. By the time the desk was shoved right under the doorknob, she was a sweating mess.

“Now, let’s talk abou-” he entered the room, and came to a stop, jaw dropping.  _ “Cat?” _

“Who’s Cat?” Sansa frowned at him. 

He blinked again, and then dispelled it with an abrupt shake of his head. “No- nothing. Listen, do you know Jon? Arya?”

Sansa bit her lip. “I know Gendry,” she said.

“It was Jon who sent me,” he told her. “They were at the Trident when Baelish’s soldiers caught up to them. We saved them, and two days later Jon Targaryen told me that he owed you his life, and meant to repay that debt.”

“Oh,” said Sansa faintly.

_ No one will come for you,  _ Gendry had said. Sansa stared at the man in front of her, the man who belied all her despair. The man- for surely he  _ was  _ a man, and he was perhaps a few years younger than King Rhaegar- nodded and turned to the window. 

“We’ll have to jump,” he told her.

Sansa glanced out. “What did you do to the bars?”

He snorted. “The bars were a new addition. If you know where to look, it’s real easy to chip away the place where they join the bars to the wall. Now, don’t tell me you’re too afraid to jump out of here.”

When Alayne had seen six namedays- meaning Sansa had seen four- Lady Rowena took them to the higher mountains and taught them how to scale the cliffs. It wasn’t seemly for other ladies to learn it, perhaps, but the Arryns lived their entire lives in the highest mountains; and Alayne was the only heir to their line. 

_ You must be as graceful as a falcon,  _ she’d told Alayne, and despite being two years younger, Sansa’d scaled every cliff that Alayne had done.

And what was jumping, when one knew how to climb?

_ Know your limits,  _ whispered Lady Rowena in Sansa’s ear,  _ know what you can do. Others say things are impossible, but there are always people who say such things. Stand at the cusp of a mountain, and look up, and  _ choose.  _ Can you? Then do it. There is no place for others’ words, not when you are a falcon of the Vale. _

“I can do it,” she said, and crawled out of the window. 

The man didn’t respond for a long moment, likely too shocked; Sansa stared at the ground and saw the bushes below- not roses, she remembered, and readied herself.

_ (alayne fell, alayne chose, alayne  _ died-  _ and here i am doing the same thing- _

_ i’ll die, i’ll die, i’ll die-) _

Before the man could follow her, and before she lost her nerve, Sansa stepped off the small ledge. The landing ripped away her breath and she let out a sharp hiss of pain, but she’d loosened her muscles; when she shifted, she was certain that she’d not done anything more than bruise her legs- nothing was broken. The bushes must have cushioned her fall.

“Brave girl,” said the man, a moment later, standing and brushing off the dirt. He extended an arm to help her up.

Sansa looked up at him. “What’s your name?”

“Thought I told you it didn’t matter.”

“It does now.”

He took one look at her clenched jaw, her sharp tone, her steady eyes; and barked out a laugh. 

“Benjen,” he said. “You can call me Benjen.”

Sansa took his hand and dragged herself up to her feet. When they mounted the horse, she ached and ached at the bruises, but didn’t once complain.

…

“Why’d you call me Cat?”

“You look like her.”

Sansa looked at Benjen carefully. She’d spent one full day huddled in on herself, biting her tongue, before deciding that silence wasn’t worth the lack of information. And for all that Benjen looked scary- he was tall, and muscled, and had a tendency to scowl blackly at anyone who dared to speak to him- he’d offered her his cloak when the nights got colder and handed a paste to heal the bruises across her cheekbones and never once threatened her.

“Who was she?” She prodded.

Benjen glared at her, before sighing. “My- my brother’s wife. She had hair as bright as yours, and her face looked right similar as well. A sweet woman.” He shook himself. “Why so curious?”

“Did Jon tell you my full name?” Sansa waited for him to shake his head- he surely  _ didn’t  _ know, or else it would’ve been written across his face- before continuing. “Sansa Stone.” Her lips pursed. “I’m a bastard born and raised in the Vale, and I’ve never known either of my parents. Maybe- maybe your- Cat- could be-”

“You think-” Benjen gaped at her, and then burst into guffaws. “Nah, girl, that’s impossible. Cat’s got a nice husband, and she married right early. She ain’t your mother, that much I can tell you.”

…

Sansa stared up at the stars. “Why’d Jon trust you?”

“Because I’m his blood,” he replied. “Shut up, girl, I need to sleep.”

The fire had burned out, and Sansa was still awake. She turned over onto her stomach and stared at Benjen, hard. Benjen was clearly not Targaryen, and there was something in the turn of his cheekbone and fall of hair that reminded her of Arya, of Jon- which meant that he was a Stark relation.

_ I know all the Starks. _

She shifted again, and closed her eyes.

_ So who are you? _

…

“Neither Jon nor Arya talk about anyone named Benjen,” she said, that morning. Benjen didn’t look up at her, but she saw his shoulders tighten. “They talk about everyone else- their parents, their siblings, their distant aunt in the Stormlands. But not you.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know them.”

“I told you I knew Gendry.” Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “You know who Jon and Arya don’t talk about? Ever?”

“You’ll tell me anyways,” he drawled.

Sansa tossed her hair. “Their grandfather. Their uncle. The  _ dead.” _

He stood straight up, and for the first time, Sansa felt he could be truly terrifying if he put his mind to it. She lifted her chin and met his gaze.

_ I have killed kings. I have survived kingmakers. I will survive you, too,  _ Benjen Stark.

“They think you dead, don’t they?” She asked softly.

Benjen turned and strode away.

…

That night, he sighed and tossed his sword down against the ground.

“They thought it,” he told her. “You figured that out quick enough. I left Winterfell before Arya was born. Jon was a wee babe then, but- well. I did let them think I was dead. You’re right about that.”

“Why?”

“Because there was a girl,” he said heavily. “There was a girl who loved a prince, and I warned her away from him, and she did not listen. Because when she came home, everyone forgave her. Because whenever I looked at her, I saw only the dead family you named this morning.” He looked away. “Because I could not forgive her, and I told her this, and she banished me from Winterfell until I could.”

Sansa blinked. “And so you spent, what, a decade and a half as a- what,  _ vigilante?  _ All because you couldn’t forgive your sister? What of your brother? His children? Weren’t they owed-”

“-I owed them nothing,” he said, and Sansa almost recoiled.

_ So this is what it is to be on the other side of the conversation. _

“You’re right,” she said, looking away. “You’re right. I- I shouldn’t have pressed.”

…

They arrived at a small clearing, and Sansa blinked at the sudden influx of activity. Benjen got off the horse and motioned for her to do so as well. Before she could speak or say anything, he’d left- likely to tie up the horse.

A week previous, she’d have been insulted at his lack of hospitality. Now, she only sighed and tugged off her gloves, examining the camp closely.

It was a small camp, with only a few tents set up; and for all that activity she’d been startled by, there wasn’t a large number of people. The people that were there, however, moved with purpose. Sansa bit her lip and forced herself to remain still- it wouldn’t do to get lost, not after she’d just reached some measure of safety.

_ “Sansa?”  _ She heard a voice say, and so turned around. There, not quite two meters away, stood Jon. 

Sansa braced herself for his disdain, or his irritation, or even an awkward attempt at being kind to her. What she didn’t expect was for Jon to take one- two- three steps towards her, long, ground-eating steps, and drag her into an embrace.

She squeaked, just a little, at the feel of his arms around her. It was- strange. Awkward, too, but then he loosened his grip just a little, and she shifted so her hands weren’t trapped between them, and then all she felt was a gut-tightening sort of warmth. He smelled of juniper and earth, and he radiated heat like a furnace. 

For just a moment, she let herself melt into it.

Then she straightened, and tugged away slightly. His eyes were very warm- warmer than they’d been on that terrible day when she found out Marda had died. And there was affection, she thought, written across his face.

_ Get a grip on yourself. _

“So,” she began, weakly. “How are things going?”

He blinked, once, twice, thrice; Sansa began to worry that he hadn’t heard her question when he abruptly came back to himself.

“Not- bad,” he said roughly. “We worried about Arya for a few days, but she seems to be fine now- walking, talking, doing better. Mostly I was sure that you were dead.”

“I- what happened to Arya?” Sansa asked, startled.

Jon frowned. “He- Benjen- didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Ah.” He pursed his lips. “We ran, you know, to the Trident; but there were a couple soldiers that followed us. They shot a bunch of arrows at us, and- well- one of them hit Arya’s leg. She’s fine now-” he added hastily, when Sansa jerked, “-but- you know. She sleeps a lot.”

“She’ll be okay?”

“The village healer says she’ll be back to normal soon enough.” Jon’s lips twitched upwards into a pitiful attempt at a smile. “She was just awake, actually. You missed her by- an hour, I think.”

Sansa nodded, relaxing for the first time since entering the camp, and then promptly tripped over her own feet. Jon caught her elbow, looking alarmed. Briefly, she closed her eyes; when she opened them, the world was spinning.

“I- think I need to rest,” she told him, and it was slurred, the syllables bleeding together. It was exhaustion and relief and something deeper, something that she’d only ever briefly brushed before, something that lit up her insides when she remembered Jon’s embrace. 

Sansa looked at the ground, which was rushing alarmingly towards her face. 

It was only Jon’s reflexes that saved her, as he led her- somewhere.

_ You shouldn’t trust him,  _ she thought, but it was distant and fuzzy.  _ You- you shouldn’t- _

…

Jon scrubbed a hand over his face. He hadn’t planned on-

Well.

He hadn’t planned on  _ anything,  _ really. He’d thought Sansa was dead, or, at best, imprisoned by those bedamned Vale soldiers- imprisoned such that Benjen would never be able to get her out.

Benjen was another story entirely. In point of fact, this past month had been one shock after another, and he’d taken out most of his temper on Sansa- it was only when they’d stopped running at the Trident, Gendry grasping him tightly, that he’d realized Sansa was missing. And then Arya’d gotten an arrow straight into her thigh, and he’d passed out from the pain, and awoken days later to find that Sansa was  _ still  _ missing.

So, he hadn’t planned on anything. But then he saw Sansa’s red-copper hair, and he’d not been able to control himself. It’d been equal parts elation and disbelief, and when she’d almost fallen over he’d taken her to his own tent. 

He sighed, now, and stared up at the sky, and wondered if anyone else had ever led such a truly ridiculous life as this.

…

“I don’t  _ want  _ to marry her,” snapped Tyrion. “It’s cruel, Father. We’ve just imprisoned one brother, killed another, taken her and her mother  _ hostage-  _ I won’t do it. Princess Daenerys-”

“She isn’t a princess anymore,” said his father. He’d hardly looked up from the documents he was reading, the whole time Tyrion ranted. “And you shall do it, because we are in a very precarious position right now.”

“Are we?” Tyrion drawled, flinging himself into a chair grouchily.

Tywin arched an eyebrow. “You know why I placed Joffrey on the Iron Throne instead of your brother or some Reachman.”

“He’s easier to control.”

“Crudely put, but it shall suffice.” He finally looked at Tyrion. “And not the only reason. We needed the Stormlands- and that came with the promise of a Baratheon on the Iron Throne. But now, Joffrey is dead. The Stormlords are angry, and the Tyrells are facing Martell incursions, and the thrice-damned Vale lords are still maintaining their neutrality. We need to ensure the Crownlands don’t rebel as well. And the Dornish shall only be silenced by a Targaryen alliance, so you shall marry Daenerys Targaryen, and you shall do so gladly.”

Tyrion’s fingers whitened under the grip he had on the arms of the chair. “It is cruel,” he said lowly. “It is heartless.”

“We are Lannisters,” replied Tywin. “For the grace of this family, for the grace of this realm, we shall do what needs to be done.” He rose to his feet and was at the door to his solar when he paused. “If you ever inherit Casterly Rock, you shall find far more difficult decisions placed at your feet, and you shall be the only one to make them. Marrying a lovely woman for the betterment of the realm oughtn’t be difficult at all.”

He left, leaving Tyrion alone.

“I’m sure,” muttered Tyrion, weary and wry. “Though I’m less worried about the realm and more of a Targaryen’s anger.”

…

Sansa slept soundly, for the full day and the night as well. When she awoke, it was dawn. The birds chirped, and she ran a rueful hand through her tangled hair before slipping out of bed. 

She stepped outside- and promptly tripped over Jon.

Both of them scrambled upright, Sansa wringing her hands, Jon mumbling apologies. It took Sansa an embarrassingly long time to ask him why he’d been lying prostrate in front of the tent.

“I- ah. That’s a good question.” Jon rubbed the back of his neck and looked everywhere but at Sansa, whose eyes were steadily narrowing. “A very good question, as it were. I mean. Let’s just say I panicked when you fainted yesterday, and leave it at that.”

He started away. Sansa followed him.

“No, we’re not  _ leaving  _ it at that,” she snapped at him. “And I did not faint. I just-”

“-took an early nap?” He asked mockingly.

Sansa huffed angrily. “Why were you sleeping outside my tent?” He twitched at the word  _ my.  _ Sansa’s jaw dropped. “Don’t tell me that was an- an attempt at protecting me,” she said.

_ “No,”  _ he said. “Not that at all.”

“Then what?”

“It’s just-” he hesitated, and then expelled a huge breath of air resignedly. “That’s my tent.”

“Clearly it’s  _ not,  _ seeing as-” Sansa blanched as she processed the words. “That was your-”

She’d thought the pillows smelled nice. She hadn’t even considered it, in all honesty, and Jon had spent the entire night outside. Actually, looking closer, she thought there was morning dew caught in his hair, like some poor-man’s crown.

“You should have woken me,” she told him.  _ “Jon-” _

“You were tired.” He sent her a short, quick smile that made her flush for absolutely no reason. “I- couldn’t sleep, anyhow. Don’t think anything of it.”

Slowly, she nodded.

…

He led Sansa to the fire, handing her the rough-hewn wooden bowls and ladled in soup; offered her stale bread. Sansa ate silently and quickly. It was only when he handed her some hot tea that she slowed down, cradling the cup in both hands and breathing in the hot steam.

“I- I tried to escape,” she confessed, soft as a summer breeze. Her bruised eyes stared into the fire, not at Jon. “Lord Baelish- he caught me. He threatened to send me to one of his brothels.”

“I’ll kill him,” said Jon.

He’d never thought himself a particularly violent man. He committed violence, yes, and was easy enough with it; but he’d never been the kind to rejoice in it. And yet seeing the purple half-moons under Sansa’s eyes, seeing the edges of the bruise almost-healed along her cheek- it made something fast and sharp and deadly as wildfire bubble under his skin.

“What?” Sansa asked, looking startled, before slowly relaxing. “No- that- I didn’t mean that. I was afraid, yes, but I’m out now. But I’m just thinking- why would he wait? Why wouldn’t he send me to a brothel  _ before,  _ why would he just throw me in a cell and tell me to be quiet?”

“He didn’t just  _ throw you in a cell,”  _ said Jon, halfway between outraged and irritable. 

“His guards hit me first,” she replied. “And he was angry at them for it.”

Jon struggled for patience for all of ten seconds, before giving up. “You’re defending him now?”

“No,” she said flatly. “I’m telling you what he’s responsible for. And he isn’t responsible for hitting me.”

“He just threatened you into obedience by telling you that he’ll throw you into a brothel. You’ll excuse me if I don’t agree with you.”

“That isn’t the  _ point,”  _ she flared.

Jon averted his face instead of answering, and Sansa held her peace as well; a heavy silence fell over the both of them. After some time, when he heard her set her cup against the ground, Jon remembered the awkward weight digging into his chest; he winced, and drew it out, handing it out to her.

“What’s this?”

“You ought to know,” he said, and watched her unveil the direwolf dagger.

Sansa held it up peering closely at it, before resting it along her fingers lightly. Her eyes darted up, meeting Jon’s for the first time in the conversation.

“Why?” She asked softly.

Jon shifted his weight slowly, uneasily. “I gave it to you. Once given- it belongs to you. And you’ve done good work with it.”

“It was your mother’s, wasn’t it? You think- you think she’d be happy with what- I did?”

“It was my mother’s,” agreed Jon. “It was her mother’s before her, and so on, back into the deepest histories of the mountains, in an unbroken line. She actually gave it to me when I was twelve and was on my way south for the first time. Told me to be wary and strong and never to forget that I was born in Winterfell, and it was winter that I belonged to, not any summer nor dragonfire.” He sighed and brushed off the dirt from his pants; stood up, and offered her his hand. “My mother wouldn’t understand you, I think, for stepping into- for choosing- a life she’s only ever wanted to escape. But if you tell her that you killed the  _ king-  _ she’ll love you, I think.”

“Don’t say it so loud,” she hissed at him, but took his hand nonetheless. Then, when he led her towards another tent: “Where are you taking me?”

“Arya’s usually awake by now,” replied Jon, and Sansa’s face softened minutely.

…

Arya was pale. 

She was white-skinned, and had lost what little fat she had around her cheeks; she looked older, wearier, in the dawn-light. And yet, despite her alarming appearance, she didn’t look like she was on the verge of dying, and that gave Sansa some relief.

She was also awake and bossing Gendry around, which might have been a deciding factor as to her health.

“Arya,” she said, stepping closer. 

Arya turned and looked at her, and then did a proper double-take, which Sansa hadn’t seen anyone do except for mummers in a play. 

“You’re alive,” she said, staring at Sansa. “I- I didn’t think you would be.”

“I live to make you unhappy,” said Sansa, and turned to Gendry before Arya could get all guilt-ridden and ruin Sansa’s mood. “I hope  _ you _ aren’t so surprised.”

“Surprised?” He drawled. “Not so much. I told him- you’re a survivor.”

Sansa smiled, lopsided and wry. “A survivor by chance,” she told him. “A survivor by luck, and anyone would tell you that that’s no true survivor.”

“And yet,” said Gendry, “here you are.”

Jon dropped the tent flap, enclosing them all in the small space. Sansa stepped forward and embraced Arya, short and quick. It was more to reassure herself that she was alive, but before she could step away, Arya’s stiff-backed posture melted into something- well. It wasn’t what Sansa would call soft, but it was  _ softer  _ than her usual mien; likely, this was the closest Arya could come to being soft and welcoming. 

And so, Sansa let herself stay far closer to another person for far longer than she’d done since Alayne.

…

Jon napped in a small chair shoved in the corner. He wasn’t entirely sure of time passing, but he knew that Sansa spoke to both Arya and Gendry, their voices low and easily ignored. Then the tent fell silent for a long time.

It was Sansa who broke it with a quiet, pointed question.

“Did you- did you mean what you said?”

Jon frowned slightly, but Gendry answered.

“When?”

“Before I got captured.”

There was a rustling sound. “I- yeah.” After a long silence, he said, “Listen, I know you don’t know very much about ‘em, and that the parts you’ve seen mean that you don’t trust ‘em. But they’re good people.”

“Maybe,” whispered Sansa. “But that isn’t enough.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Your promise still holds.”

Gendry sighed. “You’re a fuckin’ fool, that’s what you are. What’re you gonna do when we reach Winterfell? Break away now, I say, and leave these things to bigger people.”

“Break away and do  _ what,  _ exactly?” Sansa asked. “And which bigger people? The Lannisters? I’ve made enough enemies of  _ bigger people,  _ don’t you think?”

“Head to Bear Island,” he said, and it sounded like a jape; Sansa huffed a laugh to match.

“And what shall you do, Gendry Waters?” She asked, after a long silence. “A Crownlands bastard, with no worth to you save your skills at smithing.”

“Skills I gave up for Arya.”

Sansa laughed again. “Does she know you love her?”

“Love?” He asked, over-loud, startled, before audibly biting back his shock. “No, I certainly haven’t-”

“-you haven’t told her?”

“I don’t  _ love her.”  _

“Are you sure about that?” Sansa asked archly. “Because you sure have done a lot more than anyone else would for a  _ friend.” _

“Sansa,” he said repressively.

She sighed. “Fine, fine- I won’t push. But you should think about it, is all I’m saying.”

There was a faint rasping sound, and then the thump of the tent flap opening and closing; Jon pulled his shoulders closer to his ears and slipped into a deeper sleep.

…

Sansa was running a finger over a light blue imperfection running the length of the blade of the dagger when she heard footsteps. She looked up and saw Benjen.

He nodded to the tent.

“She’s doing better, I hear,” he said.

Sansa quirked her lips. “Yes- she certainly doesn’t look like she got hit by an arrow only a fortnight previous. Your village healer has done a good job.”

“Not  _ my  _ village healer,” he grunted, and Sansa rolled her eyes. “And you? I hear you’ve got the prince nicely wrapped around your fingers.”

“Jon? He’s as much wrapped around my fingers as you are,” she told him flatly. 

“Placed you in his own tent, I hear.”

“Who’s  _ telling  _ you all these things?” Sansa asked irritably. 

Benjen sighed, amusement leaking out of his bones for all that his face was as blank as ever. After a moment, he nodded to the dagger. “That’s- an old dagger. My mother gave it to me when I was young, and- I gave it to Lyanna later.”

“And she gave it to Jon,” said Sansa, “who gave it to me.”

“Aye.” He looked at it, and Sansa thought there was something very similar to longing writ across his features. She kept her grip on it loose, though she wanted to tighten her fingers possessively. Then, Benjen glanced at her face, and the emotion faded behind an inscrutable mask once more. “Go on and tell them that we’ll be leaving tomorrow. We’ve stayed too long here, as it is.”

“Is Arya ready?” Sansa asked, alarmed.

Benjen shrugged, and walked away.

Sansa huffed irritably at his back.

…

Arya did ride; she winced, sometimes, but on the whole she managed better than Sansa would have thought. It took them just over a week to make the trip from the Neck- where their camp had been- to Castle Cerwyn.

Benjen dispersed the camp there, sending them into the wilderness in groups- some to their homes in the North, others to bolster various camp populations, others simply to serve as spies and report back to him if they saw anything of importance. Mostly, the spies were heading south and getting information from the smallfolk on Lannister movement.

It was dinner when she saw Jon get up and speak to one of the spies.

The flare of anger in her gut took her by surprise. Jon had spent the past week avoiding her from sunup to sundown, and even when he spoke to her he was stiffer and more formal than than he’d been on their trip from the Eyrie. 

She was terrified out of her mind, and Jon  _ had  _ to know that- with Sansa’s hair as brilliant red as it was, there was no one who’d believe her to be an Arryn. Jon could offer her his tent, or even a direwolf dagger, but in the end all he had to do was look away as Sansa was thrown into a dungeon for her lies.

_ I’ll stay in the back. I’ll keep my head down, and as soon as I can get a horse I’ll leave. Perhaps I ought to stay here, in Castle Cerwyn- no. It’s too close. A little farther- maybe the Karhold. Or even White Harbor. If I work a little, I can get enough money to get on a ship and go to Essos. _

She refused to look at Jon as he returned to their fire. 

He’d saved her from Petyr by sending Benjen to her, but- the closer they got to Winterfell, the more excited Arya and Jon got, and the more petrified Sansa became. Sansa dug into her meal and felt the salt along her tongue, the weight of her lies.

_ How do you trust someone who won’t speak to you? Who won’t look at you? _

“I’m retiring,” she said, shoving her bowl into the closest person’s- Arya, incidentally- hands and leaving. Sansa was sick of it all, sick of the anger, sick of the fear. She just wanted her head to be  _ silent,  _ was that too much to ask?

In the dim light, she didn’t bother to remove her gown; only wrapped herself in a blanket and rocked herself to a sort of numb, stiff sleep. She was vaguely aware of Arya entering the tent- they were sharing one, now- and sliding onto her bed. 

She slept to a slow, repetitive chant of  _ trust no one, trust no one, trust no one- _

…

“I’m leaving you here,” said Benjen.

Sansa’s hands clenched on the reins. Had she not been wearing gloves, they’d be white-knuckled; as it was, they only looked like leathery claws.

“It’s been a long time since your- fight,” she said, and was proud to say that her voice didn’t shake. “Is it not past time that you return home?”

“You said you wouldn’t push,” said Benjen mildly.

_ I also said I was a survivor,  _ Sansa thought irritably.  _ I say many things, Ser Stark. You ought hear the thoughts behind the words. _

“Times change,” she said.

Benjen laughed. “Not so much, no. I’m a Stark, girl, and I hold to my promises. These two know the way, I promise.”

He nodded to Jon and Arya, offered a faint smile to Gendry, and left Wintertown.

Jon and Arya were excited, leading their horses and starting to head into Winterfell. Gendry sent Sansa a slightly worried look- she shrugged it off and followed them towards the gates.

…

It took only a little time for the entire family to pour out of the keep, embracing Jon and Arya, hollering in their ears and hugging them tight enough to call it throttling. Sansa lurked near the gates’ shadow, hands squeezing each other and trying to keep from fleeing.

And then Bran saw her.

_ “Alayne!”  _ He screamed, and ran, and embraced her; he reached just over her shoulder, and she could feel his bony skull digging into the slope between her shoulder and neck.

A moment later, she realized that Bran’s hug had knocked her hood back.

_ Red hair. _

Sansa felt panic crawl up her throat, and it tasted as bitter as bile. Bran must have felt her go stiff, for he retreated after a moment.

“Are you alright?” He asked, and it was genuine concern in his eyes.

She held very still, and watched him frown at her hair- but he didn’t ask. Sansa could feel the prickly sensation that came when being watched, and bit back the urge to- do something. Even she didn’t know if her still, leaden feet was a result of her fear or her bravery.

“Lady Alayne?”

Haltingly, she looked up. Lord Stark was frowning at her. Behind him, his sons- his wife- his  _ sister-  _ were all staring at her.

“Lord Stark,” she said.

A woman similar enough to Arya to be her twin stepped forwards, looking faintly confused- Sansa breathed in, slowly, achingly controlled, as she recognized Jon’s mother.

“Who is this?” Lyanna asked. 

Sansa kept her head high. “Perhaps,” she began, and faltered, mouth too dry to continue. She swallowed and tried again. “Perhaps we should go inside. This is a long tale.”

_ And if we are inside,  _ she thought,  _ it will be all the easier to imprison me. _

_ Or kill me. _

…

Arya’s happiness- her relief, and absolute giddiness- had been underscored by the look on Sansa’s face. It’d been one part resolve, yes, but more than anything it had been  _ fear-  _ and not just any fear, but one that she was resigned to. And now, inside her father’s solar, Sansa didn’t look anything but coolly blank.

Arya was certain that it wasn’t because Sansa wasn’t afraid- rather, because she’d decided that it wasn’t worth it to show the fear. Arya’d seen this exact emotion on Sansa’s face before, when she killed Joffrey.

“I request that you let me finish speaking,” she said, “and after that- you can do whatever you wish.”

Into the long silence that followed, it was Lyanna who spoke.

“Of course,” she said, slowly.

Sansa nodded, once, sharp and pointed as a bird. 

“Once, there were two girls,” she began, hands folding together into something approximating a nervous tic. “There were two girls, born in the Vale, who loved each other very much. It was a very quiet, very calm childhood.” Her hands came to rest on the back of the chair in front of her, gripping it tight as a shield. “That calm was shattered, one day, when notice arrived of the death of one of the girl’s fathers. Only a fortnight later, the girl’s mother died. Grieving, mad with loss, terrified- she was told that her father’s killers were coming to her home- she threw herself from the Eyrie’s Moon Tower. From a small room in which she’d spent hours playing with her oldest friend.”

Arya felt her heartbeat pick up. Sansa had never told her the entire story; she’d mentioned bits, pieces, but never the full tale, never the story in all its bitter, heart-rending glory. From the look on Jon’s face, Sansa’d refused to tell him, too.

“The other girl saw,” said Sansa, softly. “She always saw. She always watched. And there, she decided it wasn’t enough. So she  _ begged.  _ She tried, and it wasn’t enough. So, you see: as one of them fell off the Eyrie, the other fell to her knees.”

“Are you-” her father cut himself off, eyes wide.

Sansa’s jaw tightened minutely, eyes lifting to meet his easily, gracefully.

“When the girl flung herself off the Eyrie, the other went cold, and numb.” Sansa breathed in, slowly. “And then people entered, and mistook the girl who survived for the one who didn’t, and by the time she could so much as speak, it was too late to escape the charade.”

The confusion was clearing into horror, on her father’s face. Arya swallowed, hard.

“I learned upon arrival at King’s Landing that someone had been dyeing my hair. And later, w- we escaped, and I had no dye, and-” she averted her face, staring at the ground for a long minute before looking back up at him.

“Once,” she said, “you asked me what happened to a bastard girl in the Vale.”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“I lied,” said Sansa, blunt as she could be. “Alayne Arryn- she died in the Eyrie. I am Sansa Stone.”

Catelyn gasped, and Ned went even whiter. 

Sansa went stiller, and then raised her chin and laid her wrists one on top of the other, the delicate bones pressing through the thin skin.

“If you wish to imprison me,” she told them, “then I’d prefer you do it now.”

Jon shifted angrily, but it was Gendry who stepped forwards, head lowered and tendons standing out in his neck. He looked, for once, properly menacing, eyes dark and angry and indignant.

“You aren’t imprisoning her,” he said, and Arya was certain her father had seen men far more threatening, far more dangerous; but right there, he only said, “Nobody’s getting imprisoned.”

“Sansa-” Arya’s mother stepped forwards, hands outstretched. Sansa didn’t- exactly- recoil, at that; but the set of her shoulders quite clearly suggested it. Arya watched her mother flinch, and didn’t know  _ why.  _ “You are Sansa?” She asked, hopeful and yearning all at once. “You- you are Sansa, raised by Jon Arryn?”

“I- yes. I am.” Sansa hesitated. “Why?”

Her father caught her mother’s arm before she could speak. “Is your tale finished?” He asked.

Sansa nodded.

“Then hear this,” he said. “It is another tale, a long one, and a terrible one. A secret that my wife and I have kept for- a long time. Shall you take a seat, my lady?”

“I prefer to stand,” said Sansa.

Jon’s brows pulled together. Arya pressed him back, just for a moment; if he interrupted, they’d likely never find out what this secret was. 

“Very well,” said her father, hands clenching against the back of the seat tight enough to leave his knuckles white. “You see, about a year after we began the rebellion against the Targaryens, I realized- some things. Robert and I fought, long and hard, and at the end of it I refused to be a part of a rebellion that wished to place a man such as him on a throne.” He sighed. “I sent half the army north, and they brought Catelyn and Robb to Winterfell as well. The other half- I remained with them, and we searched for Lyanna.

“I found her in Dorne, imprisoned by members of the Kingsguard. I defeated them, and took her back here. On the way, we heard that Rhaegar had defeated Robert at the Battle of the Trident, but hadn’t killed him.” He faltered, slightly, and her mother stepped closer to him, shoulder brushing his. “Lyanna was pregnant. And then Rhaegar found that I’d rescued my sister- and he called his banners and marched on the North.”

Her mother said, quietly, “We were terrified. Ned called the banners, and rode to Moat Cailin.”

“And,” said her father, “we held strong.”

“But that wasn’t the end,” whispered Sansa.

“No,” he agreed. “Months later, Robert sent me a raven- he’d been married to Cersei for over a year, and had a little black-haired girl to show for it. In the letter, he told me that his daughter had died a week previous, and accused Rhaegar of killing her. He told me to be wary of Targaryen treachery.”

“A week later,” said her mother, “Benjen- disappeared.”

“And then Rhaegar sent a raven stating that he wanted a hostage. He didn’t outright say it, but it was heavily implied that he wanted Robb.”

Her mother nodded. “We were terrified,” she repeated. “You see, Rhaegar hated Ned far more than he hated Robert. He’d already proved that he could take Benjen; he’d already threatened our heir. And I was expecting another child, then.”

“What?” Robb burst out, startled.

Arya shook her head. Someone born in that time- they’d be older than Arya, younger than Robb. They’d be-

_ Sansa’s age.  _ She looked at her, and for the first time, Arya catalogued all the similarities between Sansa and Arya’s mother: the hair, the high cheekbones, the beautiful eyes. Sansa looked startlingly similar to Robb, in point of fact; all tall, thin, willowy beauty.

“We were so afraid,” whispered Catelyn. “And so when I went into labor, I shut myself in a room with only Ned and a maester. I birthed a girl, that day, with hair as red as my own.”

“The door remained locked,” said Ned. “For a week, it remained shut. At the end of it, I wrapped the girl up as warm as I could, and rode, longer and harder than I’ve ever done before- to the only place where I knew her to be safe from Targaryen plotting and deceit.”

Sansa was perfectly still, as poised as a statue. Even when she spoke, her lips moved as little as possible, as if to move more would crack open her composure.

“Where?”

“The Vale,” said Ned. 

“What are you saying?” Sansa asked, clipped.

Catelyn reached out one hand. “I named that girl Sansa,” she told her. “I named my daughter Sansa.”

“You are our daughter,” said Ned, softly.

…

Sansa bent her shoulders inward and let them tremble. For a long, harrowing moment, she thought she’d cry; but then she realized it wasn’t tears that threatened- it was laughter. The room had erupted into whispers, but the vast majority of the people were simply watching her.

She looked up and met Lord Stark’s eyes.

“Your daughter’s name is Sansa Stark,” she said. “Not Sansa Stone.”

Then she turned to Arya, deliberately keeping both the Lord and Lady’s faces out of her field of view.

“Where’s your godswood?” She asked.

Arya blinked. “I- Sansa, just-” she paused when Sansa’s face twisted. “No, it’s- let me just- I can take you there-”

_ “No,”  _ said Sansa. Arya recoiled, slightly, at her vehemence. Sansa struggled for control. “No, you’ve just- you- this is your family. You need to-” she breathed in, slowly. “Just tell me where it is.”

“Sansa-”

That was Jon, and Sansa didn’t think she could so much as look at him without bursting into tears, and she didn’t think she could survive such a humiliation.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Get into the courtyard and go right, you can’t miss it,” said another man. His red curls and blue eyes probably meant he was her- 

_ No. It’s impossible. _

Sansa nodded, and fled the room as quickly as she could without running.

…

“Is this true?” Jon demanded, after Sansa’d left.

Ned sank onto the chair behind his desk, looking more exhausted than ever before. Beside him, Catelyn brushed at her eyes- but they were dry, when he looked closer.

“Yes,” she said.

“Ned?” Jon’s mother asked, looking simultaneously angry and worried. “What did you  _ do?” _

“What I had to do,” he replied wearily. “Lya, you must understand: they killed  _ Benjen.  _ And-”

“They didn’t kill anyone,” Jon interrupted. Ned looked at him, frowning, and Jon folded his arms over his chest. “Benjen- he’s alive. He saved us, when we left King’s Landing. Maybe my father killed Robert Baratheon’s child, but I’m fairly certain he didn’t- but. He definitely didn’t kill Benjen.”

“Benjen’s alive?” Ned asked numbly.

Catelyn demanded, looking just as stunned, “Then why’d he let us think he was  _ dead?” _

“We don’t know.” Jon shrugged helplessly. “He- doesn’t like to talk much. And he especially hates talking about his past. So…”

“A bit of a grump, really,” muttered Arya.

His mother looked like she might laugh- but then she looked at Ned, and went grim.

“You gave up your own daughter, Ned?” She shook  her head. “You should have  _ spoken  _ to me. I- there are things you should have told! I could have helped-”

“You refused to get out of bed, much less speak to anyone,” said Catelyn, cold and hard as polished ice. “When, precisely, should we have told you?”

Lyanna flinched. “Cat-”

“Blame and recriminations will help no one,” said Ned, one hand twining with Catelyn’s. “I’ve a daughter, Lya, who cannot stand to be in the same room as me. And the reasons for that are very complex, and very personal, and very old. Nothing you say or do will change it.” He glanced up at his wife, and then back to Jon, and Arya, who stood beside him, his face softening slightly. “But as much as I have things to grieve, I also have things to celebrate: my daughter, and your son, have returned safely. A daughter I thought dead is alive. A brother I thought dead is alive.”

“Give us a moment,” requested Catelyn, gently. “Have a feast set up in the hall. We shall join you soon.”

...

Aegon bent his head.

He’d escaped Dragonstone when the letter came- it wasn’t signed, but there was enough truth in it for him to at least take it seriously. When the ships docked later that week, flying banners of red and gold, he ran.

Silver hair was memorable, and purple eyes easily identified. Aegon could do nothing for purple eyes; but silver hair was easily dyed. 

When he saw his reflection in the water, he felt his lips twist.

Aegon had his mother’s look, just like Rhaenys: olive-toned skin, low cheekbones, sharp jawline. But where Rhaenys had inherited the Martell gold-tinted hair and eyes, Aegon was his father’s son; all purple and silver. His mother’s skin, his father’s hair- Aegon was a combination of traits that left absolutely no doubt as to his parentage.

And yet as he stared at himself, for once with dark hair instead of silver, he could mistake himself for Jon. 

His lips twisted further, and Aegon deliberately dipped his hand in the water to get rid of the reflection.

…

The godswood was quiet, until Sansa saw the wolf.

Or, rather: the wolf came up to her.

Sansa paled, hands going to the tree, searching for a branch, or a stone, or  _ anything  _ that could protect her-

But the wolf only reached out and nuzzled Sansa’s face. Her wet nose smeared snot over Sansa’s cheek and shoulder. After a long, shocked moment, Sansa shifted, wrapping her arms around the wolf and pressing suddenly-shaking shoulders into its warm fur, some old emptiness inside her filling.

…

“If you are decided on this path,” said Illyrio, “I will not sway you from it.”

“I will not leave my mother to these-  _ pillagers,”  _ Daenerys said firmly. “Thank you, my lord.” She hesitated for a moment. “If- if I am to rethink it, you shall remain in the Westerlands, shan’t you?”

“I shall.” He bowed, and then stepped aside, revealing a casket he’d hidden behind his body. “As a gift, my lady- a marriage gift, I daresay, I offer you this. Three dragon eggs, for the true-blooded descendant of the oldest dragon-riders. May they offer you comfort, in these darkest of times.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and watched Illyrio walk away.

Slowly, she walked over to the chest and opened it. Supported on a pile of straw, as promised, lay three eggs. Daenerys stared at them, the beginnings of a plan churning in her mind.

…

When hours passed and Sansa still hadn’t returned from the godswood, Catelyn sent Robb to find her. He returned more than an hour later, frowning heavily, and told them that he couldn’t find her.

It was panic that Catelyn felt then: they’d only just gotten their daughter, and promptly lost her.

“We’ll find her,” said Ned, resting a calming hand on Catelyn’s arm. “She’ll be fine, don’t you worry.”

…

Bran stared out the window, and then turned to Arya.

“I don’t know if you remember,” he said, lowly. “But Sansa and I spoke, once, on- a song.”

Arya sighed. “I don’t remember it,” she told him. “I don’t precisely care, either, Bran, about either of your fascinations with childish romances-”

“Her favorite song was one of Aerea Targaryen,” interrupted Bran.

“Didn’t you hear me? I don’t  _ care-” _

“Aerea escaped to a godswood,” Bran continued doggedly, “and stayed there for another month, refusing to leave, refusing to name Jaehaerys the King. She  _ died  _ there, Arya.”

For a long moment, Arya was frozen as a statue.

Then she turned and ran out the door.

…

The godswood was dark and quiet, and as Arya picked her way across the mulch, she wondered that it had never quite felt so menacing as it did right then.

“Sansa,” she called. Then, louder,  _ “Sansa!” _

From her back, she heard a muffled thump. Arya whirled around, and didn’t see a person; out of the darkness came the slow, loping stride of a direwolf. A heartbeat later, Arya recognized it: the smallest one, the one that had refused all of their attempts at taming it, right up until Robb had released it.

“Easy,” she said, reaching for her bond with Nymeria. Arya couldn’t best a direwolf, not even on her best day; but if she had the direwolf’s sister beside her, she couldn’t imagine that it’d attack. “Easy, now. Let’s all stay calm, alright, see, I don’t have any weapons. No need to hurt me.”

“She can’t understand you, you know,” came an amused voice from above.

Arya stiffened, but didn’t turn from the direwolf. “She understands the tone of my voice. And since when do ladies climb trees?”

“Since they were born in the Vale,” said Sansa, dropping to the ground beside the direwolf. Her hand came up and rested, lightly, on its back. “She’s a sweet one. And protective, but that’s rather beside the point.” She looked back at Arya. “What do you want?”

“Bran told me of Aerea Targaryen,” said Arya.

Sansa frowned, and then her brow cleared. She exhaled slowly. “Oh, I- I’d almost forgotten that conversation.”

“He says she died in a godswood.”

“Your brother’s the intelligent one, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Arya. “And he says she  _ died.” _

“I’m not aiming to die,” snapped Sansa. “I’m not an  _ idiot,  _ Arya, so you can just-”

“When faced with a shock, Aerea fled.” Arya kept her eyes level, her voice calm. “She fled to a godswood. She hid in the trees, and refused to see anyone, and she  _ died,  _ because she was- because she was  _ weak.” _

The direwolf growled at her, and Arya only held to her feet because she had four years’ worth training with Nymeria under her belt.

Sansa laughed, almost derisively

“Have you ever even heard the song?” She asked. “Aerea isn’t weak, Arya. She’s  _ angry.  _ She’s so,  _ so,  _ angry. Angry at her mother, who couldn’t protect Aerea from Maegor. Angry at Maegor- for his cruelty- and yet so fiercely protective of him, at the same time, because he offers her power in a world that wants to take it from her. Angry at Jaehaerys, who dares to stop her from taking the throne. But more than anything, she’s angry at herself, because she isn’t strong enough to defend herself. And in the end, she burns up from that anger.”

“And you’re following in her footsteps,” said Arya.

She shook her head. “I didn’t love that story because I saw myself in it,” she said, and it wasn’t angry anymore; just weary. “I saw Alayne in Aerea. And I adored Alayne, so of course I adored Aerea. They were everything I wanted to be: beautiful, angry, strong,  _ alive,  _ in a way I could only dream of being.” She shrugged, small. “Then they died, and I realized I could never be them.”

_ That’s- sad.  _ Arya scrubbed a hand over her face.  _ And that’s the story of your life, isn’t it? A string of tragedies, one after the other. _

“If you’re not killing yourself, then-”

“I’m not,” Sansa said testily.

_ “-then,  _ you can come inside. Eat some dinner. We’ll work through this, I promise. Father can talk to you about it. Just- everyone’s frightened, and confused, and we should- well. Just come inside, and we can properly talk about it.”

Sansa didn’t answer for a long moment, instead kneeling to brush a hand through the direwolf’s fur. Then she looked up at Arya.

“I think I’ll name her Lady,” she said. “A proper name for a proper direwolf. Nice name, don’t you think?”

_ “Sansa-” _

“No,” she interrupted, and rose to her feet. There was an unshakeable look in her eye, and a firmness that Arya’d never before seen in them. “The time for explanations is over, don’t you think? They sent me away, and then never once came to look for me, and there are no words, no  _ explanations,  _ that can soothe that.” Her tone gentled slightly. “There’s nothing you can do, Arya, though I thank you for trying. Tell your family that I’ve no need for their hospitality, save for their acceptance of my presence in their godswood.”

Slowly, Arya nodded. She’d almost left the godswood when Sansa called after her.

“How would you feel? If we- if we turned out to be sisters?”

Arya’s hands clenched, and she turned to look at Sansa.

(Starlight spilled around them, and there was a strange wind that rustled through the godswood’s leaves. To those who listened, to those who could, it sounded almost like-

_ daughter is home, daughter is home, eldest daughter is home) _

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I know you enough to know that you have Father’s kindness and Mother’s love- and I think that we need someone like that, here. We’re all angry enough to break kingdoms.” Arya shrugged. “If Robb’s the strong one, and I’m the wild one, and Bran’s the intelligent one, and Rickon’s the lovable one- you’re the kind one. And that’s important.”

Arya turned, before she could see the look on Sansa’s face, and walked away.

…

The next morning, Jon came to the godswood.

He held up a loaf of bread, and folded a blanket on top of a rock before placing the loaf and a jar of preserves on it.

“Breakfast,” he addressed the empty air, deliberately not looking into the trees. “I’ll be back with supper tonight-”

“-you didn’t have to,” said Sansa, stepping out of the trees, wrapping her cloak tighter around her shoulders. 

The tips of her hair were dark, and her face looked faintly damp, as if she’d just washed it. Behind her came a direwolf, as tall as Sansa’s shoulder with bright gold eyes. Jon frowned, and then recognized it: the direwolf Robb had released and forced away almost two years previous. It’d been wild, then, though not so much snapping and snarling as moody and stubborn enough to rival a mule.

“The direwolf’s wild,” he told her. “It’s dangerous, Sansa. You ought to-”

“If you tell me to take care,” Sansa replied, “I’m going to get angry. And I don’t think you want that, so…”

He sighed. “Robb chased it away because it wouldn’t  _ listen.” _

“And yet here I am,” said Sansa dryly. “Here I am, with a direwolf listening to me. Isn’t that amazing?”

“You should’ve come inside last night,” said Jon. “I mean. Clearly you’ve got a  _ tendency  _ to attract dangerous things your way.”

She snorted. “As if I would’ve been any safer inside those walls.”

Jon frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind. Thank you for the breakfast, by the way- though, again, it’s unnecessary.” Sansa offered him a smile, reaching for the loaf. 

“No, I’m not ignoring that,” Jon said sharply, eyes narrowing at Sansa’s blithe demeanor. “You meant  _ something,  _ I know you did-”

He stalked towards her as he spoke. Abruptly, Sansa turned around, eyes bright and exasperated. It was only when she held her silence that Jon realized how close they’d gotten. He started to step away, apologies lining his tongue-

Sansa moved at the same time, and tripped over his feet; Jon reached forwards, instinctively curving a hand over her waist so she kept standing. For just a moment, they were closer than they’d ever been before.

…

It was instinct, perhaps, or something deeper.

Sansa wasn’t sure who moved first- only that she was kissing Jon. That one hand rested on her waist, fingers pressing into the shallow curve; that the other was splayed over her back, warm and large. 

Jon, to her surprise, was a ridiculously good kisser.

He went slowly, methodically, bruisingly. When Joffrey’d done it, Sansa had struggled not to shudder. With Jon, she felt something unspool in her belly, like a thin thread made entirely of heat and desire. She surrendered to that heat, letting her mouth slot open under Jon’s, letting herself shift closer to his warm body. Her hands clutched Jon’s doublet tight in two fists.

He broke away, panting, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. Sansa felt heat surge through her, and went to continue-

_ Trust no one,  _ whispered her mind, and the heat in her belly turned to ice.

She tried to shift away, but it was too hard when she was still so close to his intoxicating presence. When Jon’s hand only tightened on her waist, she shoved him.

Jon staggered at the force of her push, stumbling backwards until his back met a tree trunk. Sansa didn’t wince. She couldn’t stop her desire from being painted across her face, so she averted her face.

Abruptly, Sansa felt rage rise in her chest. She was angry, suddenly, angry and bitter and  _ furious-  _ she wanted to continue, she wanted  _ this,  _ and she could never have it. She wanted something more than to survive for perhaps the first time in her life, and what she wanted was impossible.

“What- happened?” Jon asked.

It wasn’t anger in his eyes, but worry. Sansa felt her anger go one notch higher: couldn’t he at least make it  _ easy  _ for her to hate him?

“We  _ can’t,”  _ she said.

Jon rubbed his face, breathing deeply before meeting her eyes. “You’re my betrothed,” he said lowly. “There’s nothing wrong with a few kisses, Sansa. They won’t change anything.”

Sansa stared at him, aghast. “Are you an idiot?” She demanded. “Do you seriously think that I’m going to- that we can  _ marry?  _ How absolutely moronic can you  _ be-” _

“Last I checked,” said Jon irritably, “my father had told us that we were to be married. I’m not certain why you think anything has changed.”

_ “Everything  _ has changed,” said Sansa. “Your father won’t let you marry a bastard. And it isn’t as if we can keep that secret, now, can we?”

“I thought we’d established that you  _ weren’t  _ a bastard.”

She waved a hand. “I’m as good as. You think Lord and Lady Stark are going to lay claim to me? I’m almost grown. More than that, they’ve had- what, seventeen years? Eighteen?- to tell the King the truth, and- they haven’t. Excuse me if I think that’ll continue.”

“You were the one just saying that everything has changed,” Jon pointed out. When Sansa didn’t answer, his tone hardened. “They’re not  _ bad  _ people, Sansa.”

Sansa sighed, shoulders slumping resignedly. “I didn’t- I didn’t think they were,” she agreed. “No, I think they were just- just afraid. They’d have been so  _ young-  _ only a few years older than us. And I’m sure they love their children very much. But I don’t think they love  _ me,  _ and- well.” She straightened decisively. “No matter what happens, I can’t marry you. All I can do is stay here, and pray nobody pays much attention to me.”

“My father will understand.”

“Your father will take my head,” she said. “I’ve only gained a stay of execution by Lord Stark’s refusal to kill me. The King will not hesitate, Jon: what’s one girl when entire realms hang in the balance?”

He looked incredulous. “Do you think I’d let him? That Gendry, or Arya, or- or your parents would?”

“I think it’s quite easy to find more interesting things to pay attention to,” replied Sansa evenly. “I think I’ve sacrificed enough in the name of the Targaryens and gotten nothing but sneers and mutters about betrayal for it.”

Jon winced. “That’s... fair.” Slowly, he reached out and brushed her wrist. “But- you can trust me. I promise that much, Sansa. And I know you don’t believe me, and- that’s fine. I hope that someday you can find it in yourself to do so.” He dropped her hand. “I’ll come back tonight with more food. Be careful, alright?”

Sansa pressed the hand he’d held to her chest, tight enough that it ached, and nodded wordlessly. As Jon turned and left, she wondered at herself. She’d faced far worse pains, far worse betrayals, than this one. She’d known loneliness far more cutting, far colder.

And yet there were tears in her eyes now, where there hadn’t been any before.

…

It was three days later that Catelyn plucked up the courage to walk to the godswood.

After Arya and Jon told them where Sansa was, they’d told the household staff not to go near her. It was a week fraught with tension; Catelyn could scarce pay attention to the daily minutiae as she thought of her daughter, living alone in the godswood. She also couldn’t bear to go there, look into eyes that were blue mirrors and tell her all the reasons Catelyn had failed as a mother.

Which was why it took three days for her to go into the godswood.

Ned had come, the first day, and then Robb had tried; Bran and Rickon had gone together, and all had returned shaking their heads. Catelyn suspected that Sansa did speak to both Arya and Jon, at least on a regular basis.

It was either that, or Jon’s appetite had grown exponentially over the past year, based on the amount of food he snuck out of the kitchens.

And so she went, now, carefully, quietly, heart in her throat and as brave as she could be.

Past the heart tree, Catelyn heard voices: soft, intimate ones. She peeked around a trunk and saw Sansa and Jon, huddled together under a large elm tree, heads bent together close enough that she couldn’t distinguish where Jon’s curls ended and Sansa’s hair began.

“-have a sister,” Jon was saying. 

Sansa smiled, soft-edged and brilliant as silk. “Have they named her yet?”

“Aye,” said Jon. “Serena.” He chuckled. “She’s got more hair than me, I think. And the prettiest purple eyes. Father’ll be right proud- his blood managed to overcome Mother’s long enough that at least her eyes are Targaryen, even if the rest is…”

“Stark to the core?”

He shrugged, and Sansa sighed, amusement evident in the slope of her shoulders. A moment later, Jon pulled away.

“I have to head back. Robb wants to go riding after lunch.”

“Alright,” she said, and leaned away from him as he picked himself up so that he didn’t step on her hair. “Be careful- don’t forget that there’s a war on. Just because Winterfell’s safe doesn’t mean the rest of the North is.”

“Knowing Robb, he’ll have packed three extra swords, about fourteen daggers, and- likely- four bows, that we won’t have any idea how to use.” He grimaced, though Catelyn thought he sounded amused. “I’ll be careful enough, don’t you worry.”

He left, and Sansa watched him go; then she levered herself to her feet, and Catelyn decided that if she didn’t speak then, she never would.

“Sansa,” she said.

Sansa went rigid. When she turned around, the easy warmth on her face had disappeared behind a mask as cold and empty and lovely as ivory. It hurt Catelyn to see the distrust on her face, so similar to Catelyn’s own, so much more beautiful.

“Can we talk?” Catelyn asked quietly.

She didn’t respond, but after a long pause nodded, once, jerkily.

Catelyn approached her slowly, and carefully seated herself on a tree branch near Sansa.

“I know this must have come a shock,” she told her.

Sansa laughed disbelievingly. “Really? I had no idea.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling,” said Catelyn. “But I think- I think I can guess.”

“Can you?”

“Anger,” she said. “Sadness. Betrayal. And if I were in your place, I’d be terrified, though I’m not sure about you.” Catelyn sighed. “I know you’ve spent almost eighteen years alone. I know that you’ve survived things nobody could have ever imagined.” She breathed in, steeling herself. “I know I’ve failed you. That both Ned and I have failed you, in the most grievous way possible.”

“On my thirteenth nameday,” Sansa said, not looking up at Catelyn, “I went to speak to Lord Arryn, and I asked him who my parents were. He told me that he didn’t know. But he did, didn’t he? Both him and his wife.”

“Ned told him the truth,” said Catelyn.

Sansa looked back at Catelyn, and though there were no tears on her face, the grief cracked Catelyn’s heart wide open.

“How many lies?” She asked. “How many  _ lies?”  _ Sansa shook her head. “And you sit there, as if- as if you haven’t spent almost twenty years pretending that I don’t exist. As if you  _ love  _ me.”

“I do. We do. We always have, and always will.”

She snorted. “Tell me, how do you love someone you don’t know? How can you love someone you abandoned?”

“I gave you up because I was afraid,” Catelyn told her. “Because I looked at you, and I couldn’t imagine watching you die. Because I wanted you to  _ live,  _ and that mattered more than anything I felt.”

“Who were you to decide that?”

“Your mother,” said Catelyn. “I pray that you never have to know what it is to make such a choice as I had to make. But know this: I held onto you. The only times you left my arms that week, you were in Ned’s. And all I could give you, my dear girl, was that one week. Those seven days. And then I could only watch Ned take you away.”

Sansa’s flushed, red and ugly. “This isn’t about you.”

“It’s about my love for you,” Catelyn countered. “I wept. I wept, every night, for three months. Ned forbade me from the stables because he was afraid I would take a horse and run after you. Every year, on your nameday, I lit seven candles in the sept and then came here, and prayed before the heart tree, because I wanted any god that would hear me to listen, to give you as kind a life as you would have had in Winterfell. I refused to speak or address Rowena Arryn, because I could not bear to look at the woman who had the privilege of watching my  _ eldest daughter  _ grow up when I did not even know the color of your eyes.” 

Catelyn reached out and caught Sansa’s hands in her own. “Listen to me,” she ordered. “You do not have to forgive us. That is your right, to hold to your rage. But do not ever think that you weren’t loved. There are entire trunks of clothes I’ve embroidered for you. There are a hundred kisses I wish I could have given. There are countless tears I have shed. Your rage is your own, Sansa, but you do not get to name yourself unloved.”

…

Sansa hiccupped, blue eyes wide. 

_ The only person to say  _ I love you  _ to me is Joffrey. _

But her mother sat there, right in front of her, and the look in her eyes was one that Sansa knew well. For the first time in her life, Sansa knew what her mother looked like. For the first time, she accepted that fact.

Catelyn Stark had spent a lifetime mourning a daughter she’d never known. Sansa had spent a lifetime wishing for parents that loved her.

_ You do not get to name yourself unloved. _

_ I was,  _ she thought, crying out against the beat of her heart, tears standing out in her eyes that she wouldn’t let fall.  _ I was alone, I was afraid, I was angry- I was an unloved bastard with nothing to me but my life and my lies. _

And then, she heard, in a whisper that sounded strangely like Alayne:  _ No. Just because you do not know that you are loved does not mean that there is no one in the world who loves you. You are a direwolf, Sansa, a direwolf with a falcon’s wings, with a dragon’s flame.  _

_ You were always loved. _

“You,” whispered Sansa, “are my mother.”

They embraced, there, in the godswood, for the first time.

(No, not the first; but then, Sansa didn’t remember the first week of her life- and there is something different in the embrace of a babe just born and an eighteen year old woman.)

“Please,” said Catelyn, rising to her feet and offering Sansa a hand. “Please, Sansa, come home.”

Sansa looked up at her mother, and closed her eyes, and then nodded, once, trembling. She accepted Catelyn’s hand, and, together, hand in hand, they walked into Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Martells, Tyrells, dragons, Boltons, and weddings.


	4. pragma (long-standing love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I am to die, then the only proper pyre for my death is a castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: minor character death, with accompanying violence; though nothing even so much as close to GRRM or GOT so... most likely nothing to worry about. 
> 
> Extra information: brightfire is dynamite, moonblooms are an asoiaf flower, and I'm going on hiatus for at least a month so the last chapter of this will likely be posted in March.
> 
> Update info and writing disasters are always available on my blog: dialux.tumblr.com

“I ought to thank you,” said Lyanna.

Sansa startled, almost tipping over the cup of wine she’d balanced on her knees. She looked up at Lyanna and shifted so that there was a little more space between them in the narrow stairwell.

“Thank me for what?”

“According to Jon- and Arya- you’ve saved their lives,” she said, settling next to Sansa. “Multiple times. Gendry tells me that at the Trident- you hated them, and were still willing to die for them. I do believe it is the responsibility of a mother to thank you for that.”

“It wasn’t- selfless,” Sansa replied. “I didn’t do it because of anything other than the fact that I hated the Lannisters. So- you’re welcome, I suppose, even if it is unwarranted.”

“And yet you saved them,” said Lyanna. “That was kind of you. Jon has always had a desire to run straight into danger without regard for his own safety, and Arya’s worse than him- which I hadn’t thought possible until I saw her.” Her lips quirked. “Anyhow, that wasn’t the only reason I wished to speak to you.”

Sansa straightened, minutely, her eyes going as polished and hard as marble. Lyanna could see Catelyn written into the hollows of her face, but the way she looked when afraid- that was all Ned. All quiet steadiness, ready to move and _act,_ as needed.

The way she hid her fear, however, was not from either of her parents; it was something taught, a lesson that no child in Winterfell had ever had cause to know. It ached, to know that this girl- this lovely, intelligent, kind child- had ever been taught such a thing, had ever needed to know such a thing.

“You know about Benjen,” Lyanna said carefully. “You know, don’t you? Why he spent so many years letting Ned and Catelyn believe him dead.”

“I don’t see it as any concern of mine,” said Sansa stiffly.

Lyanna snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen the way you look at me. The last person to be so quietly accusing was Benjen, and that was twenty years ago. You spent a long time alone with him when you escaped from Harrenhal, didn’t you? Long enough for him to tell you a little bit of that anger, I think. He never was capable of being quiet about bitterness.”

“Whatever your issues with your brother,” Sansa told her flatly, “it is no concern of mine. It does not matter to me, whether you hated him or he hated you or the both of you hated each other and still do. It is no concern of mine, Queen Lyanna, as I told you.”

When Benjen had been not many moons older than Sansa- _gods,_ they’d been young then- he’d stood in the godswood, and stared at Lyanna’s laughter, and he’d thrown a hundred vicious accusations at her, designed to make her bleed. _Selfish_ had not been the worst of them, nor the one she most often remembered; but there was something in the set of Sansa’s shoulders that suggested it as she rose to her feet.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said abruptly, turning to nod to Lyanna. “If that’s what you’re worried about, I mean.”

She’d started to leave when Lyanna said, abruptly, “I came to apologize.”

Sansa paused, shoulders hunching slightly. “Apologize for what?”

“For being responsible for Ned sending you away,” said Lyanna, also rising to her feet. “Had Benjen and I not fought- had I not sent him away so coldly, had he not run and refused to tell anyone- Ned likely wouldn’t have been so afraid. You would’ve been brought up the eldest daughter of House Stark, not a Vale bastard.”

“No,” said Sansa, turning around. “But you do not know the entirety of what might have happened. Perhaps your husband would have killed me.”

If she’d meant to make that hurt, Lyanna thought, she couldn’t have picked something more tender. After more than twenty years, she could accept her mistakes as a child; but they still stung. Lyanna had made her peace with the sacrifices that came with the choices she’d made years ago. Yet, having them thrown in her teeth like that- reminding her that the sacrifices were not only her own to make, but also her brothers’, her father’s- and now, this flame-haired niece- it hurt, like an abscessed wound.

“Perhaps,” she said, bowing her head slightly, before lifting it to meet Sansa’s eyes; Lyanna owed her the dignity of looking into her eyes. “But perhaps he wouldn’t have, and that is the life I took from you, and it is for that which I apologize.”

After a long moment, Sansa softened.

“There are a hundred people responsible for what happened,” she said. It was not anything close to absolution, but the way she said it- Lyanna tipped her head to the side and watched Sansa with fresh curiosity. “What happened to me was a hundred mistakes, piling on each other, and it does no one good to dwell on it, wouldn’t you agree?” She hesitated, and then went on. “Though I thank you, for the apology- it was kind of you.”

Lyanna smiled, slowly, and then gestured to her cup. “You could get some more if you were in the hall,” she said.

Sansa shrugged, the softness around her eyes fading back into their usual sphinx-like unreadability.

“I’m fine,” she said, and curtsied- balancing, Lyanna couldn’t help but notice, a cup of wine and heavy skirts on a step meant for a single man, without seeming the slightest bit uncomfortable about it. “Your Majesty,” she finished, and left.

…

Jaime shifted, not quite uneasy.

He’d spent a long time in King’s Landing, not necessarily of his own volition. Cersei’s rage had been magnificent when they found Joffrey, facedown in a pool of his own blood, hidden behind a sofa in quarters used to house hostages. When Arya Stark, Alayne Arryn, and Jon Targaryen evaded capture, she went- insane.

Or perhaps not quite, but certainly close enough to make Jaime uneasy. Thus, he’d stayed in the city, putting off their father’s summons and instead sending Tyrion; it was only after Tommen’s coronation- and after he was certain that Cersei wouldn’t set fire to the entire city if a maid forgot her usual cup of wine- that he left.

He’d taken a number of bannermen with him, but not too many. They were traveling through safe country, anyhow; there was no reason to leave King’s Landing bereft of loyal Lannisters.

And yet.

There was a prickle down Jaime’s spine, and it’d been there for almost a week. Something in the air, perhaps, or the cool silence of the woods. The dense forest they traveled through could hide any number of enemies, said some primitive part of his mind, and no matter how much Jaime assured himself that there was nothing there, that he was _safe-_ he couldn’t relax.

…

“The Lannister doesn’t take watch, then?” A voice hawked and spat. “Golden-haired bastards, the lot of ‘em.”

“Aye,” mumbled another. “Spoiled fools. Anyone with a lick of sense would’ve sent out riders, but these’re so _confident-”_

“Easier for us, no?”

They fell silent as a third man approached, settling beside them. “We’ll see for another four days,” he told them. “If we can’t get him alone by then, we’ll attack. But keep your heads down, you hear? We can’t afford to mess this one up.”

“Aye, Benjen,” said the first, and held to their silence.

…

In the early morning, Jaime finally gave up on sleep and stomped outside. There were two sentries, set up at opposite ends of the camp, but both were snoring.

He snorted and fought back the urge to go and teach them a lesson in wariness, instead settling against a trunk and staring out into the fog. It wouldn’t do for a leader to appear jumpy, after all. Even if he did feel as if he’d leap out of his skin.

There was an overloud chirp from a tree, then, and Jaime really _did_ jump- when he realized that it was just a bird, he slumped back against the tree and closed his eyes.

 _Stupid birds,_ he thought irritably.

He frowned and tipped his head against the trunk as a thought occurred to him. _And yet,_ he thought, _no birdsong._

That bird’s chirp had been an anomaly, in fact. The rest of the woods were eerily silent. For just a moment, he let suspicion rise; and then he relaxed forcibly. This forest was usually silent. Just because it wasn’t _this_ silent wasn’t cause for concern.

_Nobody trusts the man who names a dog a wolf. I need to calm down._

A moment later, something struck the back of his head, and he fell unconscious. The last thing Jaime remembered before everything went black was the corollary to the saying: _and nobody respects the man who names a lion a cat._

…

Daenerys turned, heart in her throat, hands tight on her mother’s arm.

Illyrio frowned when he saw her.

They met, now, in the sea-carved caverns below the castle. It’d taken Daenerys long hours to plan everything, even longer to set it in place. For the past two days she’d been itchy with it, struggling to maintain her calm.

“I have told you,” Illyrio said, eyes narrowed. There was a small boat awaiting them. As he’d said, there was only space enough for one person beside him. “I cannot take you both.”

 _If you weren’t so_ large, _we might have all fit._

She swallowed her bitterness. “No,” she said softly. “You shall not be taking both of us, my lord; only my mother.”

“And you shall remain here?” He asked, startled. Then, stepping closer, close enough that Daenerys almost gagged at the stink, “Might I remind you, my lady, that you are of far more importance to the Targaryen cause than your mother?”

Daenerys straightened, her eyes narrowing. “You may,” she said, very coldly. “And if you do, I shall remind you: _my mother_ is Rhaella, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, sister-wife to Aerys II, mother to the rightful king of Westeros, and she is of far more import than _anyone_ you can think of. She is as much a Targaryen as I, and is of equal import. You shall take her, do you understand?”

He stared at her for a long minute, and then slowly nodded.

“Very well,” he said, and bowed; pressed a kiss to her hand, and sank into the boat.

Daenerys watched her mother’s thin, frail figure go into the distance, and felt tears threaten to fall. A moment later, she turned away and strode into Casterly Rock, eyes open and dry.

…

“Who _are_ you?”

Benjen didn’t quite reach for the gag, but it was a close thing. He definitely didn’t bother looking back at Jaime Lannister.

“Thieves,” he said flatly.

Jaime growled something unintelligible and wrestled himself upright. “My father will have your head for this. Do you think you can survive the full rage of the Lannisters? Have you forgotten what happened to the Reynes? He’ll murder you and all your blood, he’ll destroy entire _villages.”_

“And what, releasing you will stop him?” Benjen asked derisively.

“It’s the only hope you have,” he hissed.

Benjen shook his head, amused. “Your father already hates my blood, Kingslayer. And if you’re nice and quiet, you might just live to see the end of this yet.” He lifted one eyebrow. “I’ve told my men that if you so much as twitch in the wrong direction, they’re to aim to kill. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Jaime gritted out.

…

Sansa ran a hand through Lady’s fur.

Arya, beside her, watched the direwolf carefully- as if she didn’t have her own one, larger and heavier than Sansa’s, curled about her own feet as well.

“She won’t hurt you,” Sansa told her, half-impatiently.

“She’s wild,” replied Arya. “Sansa- you don’t know the full story.”

“Has she bit anyone?”

“No,” said Arya hesitantly. Sansa waved a hand, as if her point was made. “But she doesn’t _listen,”_ she said heatedly. “When Robb and Jon brought them back, everyone thought Jon would take her, but they just- didn’t click. He got really close to Ghost, and- that’s another story. But this one’s _wild,_ not like the others. We’ve been training Nymeria and Grey Wind and Summer and Ghost and Shaggydog to listen to us for years, and they still aren’t perfectly obedient. Lady’s been wild for more than two years.”

“Are you done?” Sansa asked.

Arya’s lips twisted. “Yes.”

She sighed, finger scratching the ruff behind Lady’s ears before turning back to Arya. “Nobody’s told me that I should send her away.”

“That’s because Mother’s trying to keep you from running away,” said Arya flatly.

“Lady won’t bite anyone.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Can you imagine giving up Nymeria?” Sansa asked, finally looking up at her, eyes wide and sharp in a way they hadn’t been for ages. “I can’t explain it, Arya, but- it’s like there’s this _thing_ inside me that’s been filled, here, with Lady. She won’t hurt anyone, I promise you that.”

Slowly, Arya relaxed. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” said Sansa, and that was that.

…

“Where are we going?”

Benjen looked up at the clouds.

“Winterfell,” he said. “I think it’s past time to face old demons, don’t you?”

…

Daenerys lit the last of the seven candles and walked away.

She’d entered this place twice: once to find what she wanted, and the second to light it. The lion cages blocked these pits, and to enter she’d had to jimmy a lock that was located inside one of the cages- but the lions’ hadn’t bothered her, and had slept the entire time she was there. It was the closest sign she could’ve been given from the gods.

Back in her rooms- rather close to the Lion’s Mouth, the cavern at the base of Casterly Rock- she pressed a hand to the stone wall and willed herself not to weep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this- _something._ It sank into her bones, twisted with old, bitter slights, and even she couldn’t tell if it was fear or rage; only something deeper than fear, colder than rage. Even these rooms had been meant as an insult, keeping her so far from the Lannister’s.

_You brought a dragon into your home. Did you think you were safe?_

“My lady,” said a voice from the entrance. Daenerys turned and saw Tyrion.

She smiled thinly. “Lord Tyrion,” she said.

“I wanted you to know-” he hesitated. “We are to marry, in the morning. Before you walked into the sept- I simply wanted you to know that you’ve nothing to fear from me. I promise you that I will never dishonor you, nor hurt you. Once you are my wife, I will protect you.”

“Shall you?” She asked coldly. “Why ought I trust you?”

“I am not my father.”

Daenerys lifted her chin. “You are a Lannister.”

“My lady-”

“You are a Lannister,” she continued, voice heating. “You and yours took my brother’s crown, imprisoned me and my mother, _killed_ Viserys- and yet here you stand, telling me that I’ve nothing to fear. Well, I tell you this, _my lord:_ I do not care for your words. Words are but wind, and wind is as changeable as the clothes on your back. But I am a dragon, and I shall show you that the Targaryens are not yet finished.”

He sighed. “You _are_ finished,” Tyrion told her. “I am sorry if you think you aren’t, but there is no hope left to your blood. There is some grace to be found in accepting your fate.”

“Isn’t there?” Daenerys asked, eyes narrowing. “Do you know what brightfire is, my lord?”

“The material used to blast mines,” he replied. “It was used to form Casterly Rock, in point of fact. Why?”

“Because,” she said, “fire is power. And I will never be powerless in my life. I will not wear a cloak of red and gold in my life, not so long as there is breath in my body. If I am to die tonight, then I shall die gladly.”

“I- what-”

“You brought a dragon into Casterly Rock,” said Daenerys. She could feel the faint tremble under her feet, now. She kept her eyes level on Tyrion’s. “You saw my gowns and my hair and my eyes and thought I was meek, demure, _broken._ But I am a Targaryen princess, trueborn, direct descendant of the first King of Westeros. I am a dragon, and you brought me into your home and called me tame.” The tremors increased, and Daenerys smiled. “If I am to die, then the only proper pyre for my death is a castle.”

Tyrion went white, stumbling backwards as the floor bucked violently.

“Where did you even find brightfire?” He demanded.

“You should have kept me from your library,” said Daenerys, eyes drifting closed as the stink of smoke filled the air. “Your own tales- your ancestors’ diaries- sealed your fate. They’ve kept brightfire in the mines, even to this day. It was easy enough to find it.”

He cursed and ran, and Daenerys turned back to her room before kneeling, undoing the chest of dragon eggs. If she were to die in the next few minutes, she’d do it with the only children she’d ever have in her arms.

…

“We should leave soon, my lord,” said one of the men.

Illyrio frowned up at the castle. “Just a few more minutes,” he said.

“The tide-”

“-shall not change overmuch. Stay the oars,” ordered Illyrio.

He looked behind him, to the woman Daenerys had ordered him to protect. Rhaella Targaryen was as cold and empty as a marble statue. She was as lovely as one, as well, her large eyes staring into the distance and weeping silently, endlessly. Illyrio sighed.

It would’ve been infinitely better if the Princess had bowed to his demands, but he knew very well how dangerous Targaryens were if they felt their backs were to a wall. And if Daenerys decided she’d marry a man half her height instead of fleeing while she could-

There was a thunderous sound, matched with a shaking deck; Illyrio stumbled, slightly, reaching out to grip the handrail. The sailors’ curses and the dull sound of screams echoed in his ears as he turned slowly.

Illyrio paled at the sight of Casterly Rock.

What had once been a giant stone hill with a marvelous castle erupting from the top was crumbling in on itself.

_Casterly Rock has stood for millennia._

And here they were, watching it fall, watching its complete destruction. As Illyrio watched, horrified, a full third of the castle sheared off the stone and fell into the water. He barely had time to brace himself before the resultant wave hit their boat.

The Rock was collapsed, but the Lion’s Mouth still stood. Illyrio grabbed for a spyglass and peered through it. The giant cavern hadn’t been destroyed- not yet, perhaps- but there were flames raging across it.

He looked back at Rhaella, who hadn’t shifted even a little.

 _Your daughter did this,_ he thought, and turned to the captain.

“We shall stay the night,” he said.

…

Tyrion kept his head down as best he could as he entered Lannisport.

He’d escaped the destruction, just barely, by fleeing towards the Lion’s Mouth, by gathering a boat and three men and telling them to _row-_ and even then, it’d been sheer luck; stone and crumbling mortar could have sunk them easily.

Now, he entered Lannisport and presented, to the maester, Tywin Lannister’s ring, and commandeered the ravens. The only messages sent to the world would be of his own making- they couldn’t afford to tell the rest of Westeros that Tywin Lannister had _died,_ not yet.

That very night, he sent a message to Cersei.

…

“Catelyn is close- or was close- to Petyr.” Sansa twirled a cattail stalk between her fingers. “Perhaps she told him the truth.”

“When Uncle Ned didn’t even tell my mother?” Jon asked.

It had been a long couple of weeks after Sansa walked into Winterfell alongside Catelyn- her parents both seemed caught between being affectionate and letting her approach them on her terms. Bran and Rickon took it easily enough; Sansa’d spent an afternoon talking about climbing with both of them, and both adored her after that. Arya had been quiet, but she’d accepted it after about a week of distance, and she’d gone so far as to offer Sansa tips on training Lady.

But Robb, of all of them, remained formal. He barely spoke to her, and those times that he did, he was stiff, awkward. Three weeks ago, when Sansa’d asked him about- something- over supper, he’d mumbled into his stew and fled, leaving Sansa to stare at his back.

After about a week of it, she’d left it all behind and walked to the godswood. There was something calming in the quiet, and Sansa felt better equipped to handle everyone every time she went there. Three days later, Jon joined her there.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sansa said quietly. “Petyr kept me locked away for a _reason._ And I need to know why, because- well. He’s a dangerous man.”

“D’you want to talk to Aunt Catelyn tonight, then?”

Sansa hesitated. “Perhaps,” she said finally.

He frowned. “Perhaps?”

“I- oh, don’t act stupid!” She shoved him lightly. “You know how- awkward it is. How they don’t look me in the eye. They’re sorry, and then they’re pitying, and I’m _trying,_ but they aren’t making it easy!”

Jon ducked his head, a smile catching on his lips. “They’re trying too.”

“Robb certainly isn’t.”

“Robb is a fool,” said Jon. Sansa turned, lifting an eyebrow, and he nodded, shoulders lifting in a resigned shrug. “He _is._ He’s never adapted to change very well, and- this is a big one. And you’re not pushing either, so… he’s confused.”

“What’re you telling me to do?” Sansa asked slowly.

“I can lock you into a study with him,” he offered. Sansa rolled her eyes, and he sighed. “Just- talk to him. Sit down and _talk._ Robb won’t change, not if you don’t force him to, but once it’s done he’ll accept it. Promise.”

 _Reminds me of someone else I know._ Sansa smiled, small, at Jon. It still ached, to look at him. She rather thought she could learn to love him, if she allowed herself; but she couldn’t. There was only so much heartbreak anyone could bear, and Sansa couldn’t bear it if she loved him and then lost him. Better to maintain some distance.

“We ought to head back,” she said, but couldn’t help a longing look into the trees. Sansa hadn’t spent as much time alone as she would’ve wished.

Jon caught on.

“I’ll go,” he said. “Just be back before sundown. Aunt Catelyn worries.”

She sighed, exasperated, but cut herself off. While Sansa was unused to people trying to monitor her so closely, she did understand where it came from; but it chafed, after so many years of freedom.

“Fine,” she said, and watched Jon leave.

…

Jon was almost in the courtyard when he heard a roar erupt.

He jogged the rest of the way there, vaguely worried, arriving just in time to see Benjen reveal himself and a chained man behind him, to a whispering courtyard. A heartbeat later, Jon heard a familiar shriek as his mother leapt out of the crowd- right on her heels came a pale-faced Catelyn, and an even paler Ned.

Jon wondered, briefly, if his mother was clawing Benjen’s face off. It wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility- but then Benjen staggered back, and he realized that his mother was only embracing him, tight enough that she wasn’t even standing on the ground.

When they let go, she wiped at her eyes and stepped away, refusing to look away from him as if afraid he’d disappear. Ned stepped forward and embraced him as well- a startling show, from a man that had never been overly given to physical contact; but after he also stepped away, Benjen turned to Catelyn- and, a little too late, Jon recognized the look on her face: anger.

She slapped Benjen, hard enough to make him rock back.

“I… might have deserved that,” said Benjen.

Catelyn flushed, hands clenching against her skirts. She looked angrier than Jon had ever seen her, even more than the time when Robb and Jon had gone hunting for a week and Arya had hidden in their saddlebags and almost been trampled by their horses’ when they came across the direwolves. After a long, wordless silence, she turned and strode into the keep without looking back.

Benjen rubbed his cheek, over the already-reddening mark. Ned arched an eyebrow at him, and then nodded towards the bound figure behind him.

“Who’s that?” He asked.

“I found him,” Benjen replied, smiling crookedly. “Right on the side of a road, ready to be picked up and trussed, easy as you please.” With a flourish, he undid the sack over the man’s face, revealing a disheveled, mud-stained Jaime Lannister.

“Benjen,” said Ned, faintly, “you ought to step inside. It appears we have much to talk about.”

They placed the Kingslayer in one of the rooms off the stables, until they’d readied a cell for him, and left him.

…

Sansa was walking back into the streets when Lady came up to her and nudged Sansa with her nose. She winced and almost lost her balance, before catching herself.

“What’re you doing?” She asked, rubbing Lady behind her ears. The direwolf shoved her pointedly, and Sansa stumbled again, laughing. “Alright,” she said. _“Alright,_ Lady, I’m going!” Under her breath, she mumbled, “Wherever you want me to go, anyhow.”

The only building Lady nudged her towards was the stables, and Sansa was quite confused about what was inside- she’d rarely visited before, and to the best of her knowledge, Lady had never spent much time there either. It was a few minutes later that she saw the twist of meat hanging a bit too high for Lady to reach- she must have smelled it, or seen it- and laughed aloud.

And then she saw the room, and when she stepped closer, she saw the pale-haired man who she’d thought abandoned in the south- Sansa saw the Kingslayer, and went dead white.

She was staring, she realized after Lady nearly bowled her over; she was staring, and the Kingslayer had seen her.

 _I lied to you,_ thought Sansa. _I outwitted you._

But seeing the flash of his green eyes, the dull lanks of golden hair- Sansa’s breath came shorter, and she couldn’t stand to be inside any longer; she turned and fled, hair tumbling away from her.

…

Robb was in the practice yard- cleaning up some of his armor- when he saw a red blur race past him. He frowned, looking around, and recognized who it was: Sansa, agitated, entering the keep.

He sighed and immediately felt guilty for it. It wasn’t her fault, what had happened to her, and he certainly had no right to feel any sort of resentment for her return to Winterfell, not when the rest of her life had been so difficult.

But.

Sansa was younger than him by more than two years, and she’d done more in that time to be worthy of the name Stark than he ever had. She had a talent for inspiring loyalty in others: Robb had never seen Arya so protective of someone, and for all of Jon’s grousing, he also spent hours with her. Bran and Rickon were enamored of her, and their parents were carefully polite.

And Robb was- well, he was _furious-_ Sansa might not have known the truth of her parentage, but he’d been robbed of a sister.

Everyday, for almost twenty years, his parents had lied to him. Hadn’t Robb deserved to mourn a sister? Hadn’t Robb deserved to know that he _had_ a sister? He didn’t know what he’d done to merit absolute, uncaring silence; but he did know that he was incapable of forgiving that. Perhaps the others could, but he couldn’t.

(But also, at the end of it, was this fear: Arya and Bran and Rickon and his parents and Aunt Lyanna and Jon all _knew_ him. They’d grown beside him, or watched him grow, and they loved him deeply, unconditionally.

Sansa hadn’t.

If he spoke to her and didn’t live up to her expectations, then- her judgment would be untempered by love, or understanding, or anything. And he didn’t think he could brush off either her pity or her disappointment.)

So that was it, his entire, blackened, selfish heart laid out: Robb was jealous, and he was furious, and he was also the tiniest bit afraid of Sansa’s judgment.

It was why he’d avoided her for so long.

It was why he now looked around, trying to catch anyone’s eyes and pass off the responsibility; but Arya and Bran were in lessons with Maester Luwin, and Jon was nowhere to be found. Robb seriously considered leaving Sansa be- but then he thought about his father’s disappointment if such a thing were ever found out, and with a deep, irritable sigh, he rose to his feet.

_We are Starks, and must be honorable._

Robb found Sansa in one of the ruined towers. She wasn’t shaking, or sobbing, but her shoulders were curved inwards and her cheek rested on her knees as she stared out the window.

“Are you- alright?”

Sansa startled, white showing all around the blue of her eyes as she looked up at him.

“I-” she said, and her voice cracked. Robb frowned, sympathetically, and she flushed, arms tightening around her legs. “I’m fine.”

“You aren’t,” Robb contradicted, moving closer to her. “I can- anyone can see it. What happened?”

 _“Nothing,”_ she said.

_Liar._

Robb settled against the opposite wall. “Listen,” he said, after a long pause. “If you tell me to leave you alone, I will. If you tell me to go away, I will. If you want me to find Arya or Jon, I can do that. But _something’s_ the problem, and I think it’ll be kinda difficult to find them on short notice, so all you’ve got is me.”

Sansa looked at him, measuring, and then dug her forehead into her knees for a moment before turning to him.

“I killed Joffrey,” she told him bluntly. “I was so afraid after that, and Jon was still hurt, and we were stuck inside King’s Landing. I took them to Lannister quarters and bound Jon’s wounds, and after that I gave Arya a crossbow and had her hide- and when Jaime Lannister entered his rooms, I threatened him into giving us a couple of horses.” She swallowed and looked away. “And now he’s here.”

“The Kingslayer’s a prisoner,” Robb said, but his mind was still churning over the words _I killed Joffrey._ “He isn’t a guest.”

She exhaled, slightly frustrated. “It doesn’t _matter,_ do you see? He’s a killer. And I outwitted him, and-”

“-you killed Joffrey,” Robb interrupted.

“-I- yes.” Sansa faltered, looking at him peculiarly. “I did. Hasn’t anyone told you?”

“I thought it was Jon,” said Robb. “Or maybe Arya, if Jon was as badly injured as you say. But it was _you.”_

His sister had, in the space of twenty years, been brave enough to kill a _king._ Robb felt something catch in his chest. Before it could ache properly, however, he shoved it aside and studied her, properly.

“You look like Mother,” Robb told her quietly, and Sansa looked back, slightly warily. “But you have Father’s strength, don’t you? You’re a Stark, through and through.”

Sansa didn’t answer for a minute, and then she tipped her head to the side, studying him back just as closely. “Why are you here?” She asked, abruptly.

Robb shook his head, confused, and she elaborated: “You don’t like me. And you’re here, asking me to feel better, and I want to understand _why-_ because I certainly haven’t ever spoken to you before.”

“It isn’t…” he hesitated, struggling to express it in words. “I’m not doing this because I owe something to you. I’m your elder brother, and that- that means something, you know?”

“Does it?” She asked softly.

Robb didn’t wince, but it was a close thing. He certainly hadn’t acted like any sort of a brother recently.

“It will,” he said, firmly. “And, you know, the Kingslayer’s probably not going to be staying here for much longer. If you want, I can place a guard on him- a direwolf- whatever. If it makes you feel safer.”

Slowly, tremulously, Sansa smiled, and reached a hand out- Robb caught it in his own, and they sat there, together, until the sun dipped beneath the trees.

…

Cersei folded the paper over and over her fingers. Her hands trembled, faintly, and she felt something strange and cold slither up her spine- coil around her neck, sink fangs into the base of her skull. She shuddered, the paper fluttering to the floor, her hands gripping the red stone tight enough to leave her knuckles white.

Jaime was captured- according to a letter sent by the damned Starks, they had him. Her father was dead. Joffrey was dead. Only half a year previous, there had been seven of them.

 _Now, two are dead, and Jaime is as good as._ Cersei swallowed, and it tasted of thin, bitter bile. _My father is dead. Casterly Rock is gone. My_ father _is-_ she closed her eyes, hands clenching, and then straightened firmly. She could hear, almost as if Tywin stood beside her, his words: _Everything we do, we do for this family._

“Jaime will return to me,” she breathed. “We will- we will survive this. The Lannisters belong together.” She flung open the door and nodded to Ilyn Payne. “Bring me Rhaegar,” she ordered, and strode away.

…

“You’re- a Stark.” Benjen’s eyes narrowed. “You’re _Catelyn’s_ daughter.”

“You lied,” said Sansa, but her tone wasn’t half as accusing as it could have been. “You told me she wasn’t my mother.”

“By all intents and purposes she couldn’t have been!” He snapped. “It’s ridiculous, this whole thing- all lies and double-crosses and secrets whispered in the dark. It’s _ridiculous.”_

“Yes,” she said. “It is.”

They stared at each other for a long, long moment. Slowly, Benjen began to laugh; Sansa echoed him, and that was all they spoke of it after that.

…

“The Queen asks for us to bring Jaime to the Twins,” Ned said slowly.

Lyanna arched an eyebrow. “Oh, are we doing that now? Listening to usurpers and fools for guidance, I mean. It might make more sense for us to send for help from Ulthos, for all the help it’ll do us.”

Ned didn’t glare at her, but it was with the patience of a man who knew years of annoying younger sisters questioning his every decision- Benjen, who decidedly _didn’t,_ rolled his eyes expressively.

“She’s offering us Rhaegar,” he said mildly.

The silence through the room lasted long enough for him to hand the paper over to Catelyn- who was dangerously silent- and then seat himself.

Benjen broke it.

“What does she want in return?”

Ned arched an eyebrow; Catelyn pursed her lips before handing the letter to Lyanna. Lyanna barely finished two sentences before flushing, red and blotchy and furious.

“She wants her _brother?”_ She asked, voice skittering over his nerves. “In return for the Kingslayer she’ll give us- she’ll give us the _King?”_

Benjen coughed. “Is she a fool?” He asked politely.

“She’s Tywin Lannister’s daughter,” said Lyanna, scathing. “She isn’t a fool.”

“She’s a woman,” said Catelyn, rising to her feet slowly. Lyanna arched an eyebrow and Benjen frowned. Catelyn folded her arms over her chest. “She’s a woman, and for all that she’s a Lannister- she’s very close to her brother, by all reports. According to Arya and Jon, she’s _closer_ than the reports say. And her son died, not even three months previous. She’s a woman, and she is afraid, and she holds power.”

“You’re saying she wants her brother back,” said Ned.

Catelyn nodded. “And I think that we should be ready for trickery, and for treachery; but we ought to go south.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Benjen nodded. Lyanna looked entirely disapproving- she thought it was a trap, which had been Ned’s first thought as well, but the terms Cersei was offering were good enough to make him hesitate. And if Catelyn and Benjen both agreed…

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll draft a letter to her tonight.”

…

A week later, almost the entire household went south- all save for the children, and Lyanna.

…

Illyrio watched the sunset on the sea.

 _The ocean’s dusk is unmatched by any on the land._ Illyrio smiled, tugging at his beard, and heard the creak of wooden floorboards.

Daenerys stood there, pale and small under her clothes, her silver hair braided back from her face. On her shoulders perched two dragons, and around her waist another. They stared at him with beady eyes.

“Where am I?” She asked.

“In the land of the living.” Illyrio gestured expansively. “You ought to be glad of it; my men had a difficult time in bringing you out of the castle. Had they not, you would have been surely crushed.”

“I thought you said you had space for only one of us. But-” Daenerys nodded to her mother, who stared out of the stern, quietly.

Illyrio smiled. “To evade the Lannister fleet’s attention, yes. But due to _your_ actions- they had bigger problems than one small boat from Pentos.”

“Is that where we’re headed?”

“Yes,” said Illyrio, and Daenerys nodded; she padded over to her mother, and sat beside her.

…

They exchanged the Kingslayer for Jon’s father two mornings after their arrival. Rhaegar was- disheveled, a little, and much paler than usual, but his eyes were bright and he walked easily between them.

Later, Jon left the crowd and sank against one of the many fountains, scrubbing over his face. It was exhausting, the whole- _thing._ He just wanted to flee, and probably sleep for another lifetime.

Catelyn had told him to keep his mouth shut and head down- not in those particular words, perhaps, but close enough- and Jon had; but with all that over, now everybody was just relaxing and waiting for the Queen to return to King’s Landing.

Benjen staggered out of the dance hall. He stumbled, weaving drunkenly around the garden, and seated himself beside Jon.

“Not a fan of parties?”

“Not- exactly.” There was more to it than that, of course, but Jon wasn’t in the mood to talk about everything just yet.

“Ah,” said Benjen, nodding serenely. “Tell me, how’d it feel to become a- a- Kingslayer?”

Jon frowned. “What?”

“You killed Joffrey, innit?” Benjen nudged Jon’s shoulder. “He was a King. How’d it feel?”

 _Sansa killed him,_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he and Arya had decided to keep quietly silent on that subject for good reasons- Sansa, after all, had very few shields against the Lannisters’ hatred, not like Jon, not even as much as Arya.

“Painful,” he said, blandly, then, lips twitching: “He choked. When the knife got stuck in his throat, he- choked. And he looked very _surprised,_ as if he couldn’t even imagine it.”

“Bastard born of incest,” said Benjen, shrugging. “What’s the surprise in that, right?”

A moment later, Jon heard something splash; he turned around rapidly, and saw a golden flash of hair turn the corner, a scarlet cloth snag on a bush. _A Lannister,_ he thought. _Fuck._

“Let’s go back inside,” he said, levering Benjen up, a sick feeling swirling in his belly.

…

When Loras threw his pennants down, glaring, Elia didn’t flinch.

She hadn’t flinched, not when the court whispered vicious, stinging rumors before Rhaegar assumed the throne, not when the people accused her and her children of Dornish witchery, not when a black-feathered raven landed in Sunspear and told her of a three-realm-wide conspiracy to depose her husband. Elia had spent a lifetime being unflinching in the face of adversity, and she wouldn’t start being anything less now.

“Tell me what the Lannisters promised you,” she said, one hand tight on Rhaenys’ shoulder, the other steady and calm as Rhaegar when he entered the throne room to see Jaime Lannister on the Iron Throne, Aerys the Mad’s blood staining his pristine white cloak. _Steady,_ she thought, _steady as the sun, and the stars, and all the things that are steady under their light- I am steady, I must be steady, as all of them._ “Tell me what the Lannisters have offered, and hear this: I offer you more.”

“More?” Mace Tyrell asked curiously.

Elia smiled, false as Lannister silver, true as Martell gold. Her nails contracted on Rhaenys’ shoulder briefly, drawing blood, but her daughter didn’t move at all.

“Tell me what the Lannisters promised,” she repeated.

 _Tell me, what is a princess worth?_ Elia breathed in, slow and calm. _A kingdom? Defection?_

_More?_

…

“I- _what?”_ Jon stared at his father, but Rhaegar was implacable.

“We need the Arryn forces,” he said. “You must do this, Jon; there is nobody else. You _must.”_

Jon turned to Ned, who stood behind Rhaegar. There was regret and sadness on his face, but he still wasn’t speaking. Catelyn, beside Ned, was looking away.

“I’d like to speak to my aunt and uncle,” Jon gritted out.

After a long pause, Rhaegar nodded. Jon stalked over to the door and flung it open, entering a small study off the library- and barely waited for Catelyn to close the door behind her before starting to shout.

“This is why she was afraid!” His hands trembled, and Jon clenched them tightly. “She told me that you had two decades to come clean to my father, and that you’d continue to keep your mouths shut, and I told her that she could _trust you!_ My father doesn’t even know her true name and he wants me to marry her and you have to _say_ something, because this is _ridiculous-”_

“This is to protect her,” Ned began.

Jon felt his face twist disgustedly. “Is it?” He asked, lowly. “Or is it because you’ve spent so long being quiet that you can’t even open your mouth anymore?”

“You don’t get to talk to your uncle like that,” Catelyn said sharply.

“I will do whatever I want,” Jon all but snarled. “You’re _cowards,_ that’s what you are. How dare you? You’ve fucked your own daughter over enough times, don’t you think?”

Catelyn’s eyes narrowed, and then she stepped forwards until she was less than a foot from Jon.

“Follow me,” she said abruptly, and turned and left.

Ned only shrugged at Jon’s glare, and after a pause Jon followed Catelyn- they didn’t stop until they were in the woods, far enough from the castle that the pennants were swallowed by trees and the earth under their feet had turned to sand, the river loud in their ears.

“Sansa is in danger,” Catelyn said quietly.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Let me finish.”

Jon’s mouth snapped shut at the implacable note in Catelyn’s voice, and he subsided gracelessly.

“Sansa is in danger,” Catelyn repeated. “Of those who have lied to Rhaegar, Ned and I are protected by our names and what we offer. But Sansa is not: she is a daughter, firstly; and then, more than that, her past claims her to be Sansa Stone. A bastard has so few protections, Jon, and Sansa has committed _treason_ in the past year. But as your wife, she shall be protected.”

“She won’t see it that way,” Jon said slowly.

Catelyn’s eyes lowered. She looked more at home in these woods than she ever did in the colorless rolling fields surrounding Winterfell, as if her skin and hair was woven from the same fabric the gods had fashioned the forest; but right then, she looked more thin and worn than ever before, over-full of grief and pain, so that she seemed to be more forest than human.

“I have loved her,” said Catelyn. “If she never forgives me my sins, I will understand. I can accept her hate far more easily than I can accept her death.”

Slowly, they returned to the Twins- and when Rhaegar arched his brows questioningly, Jon bowed his head in silent acquiescence.

…

“We must go to the Twins,” Lyanna announced a few days later, her hands flat against the stone table. “The transfer of prisoners has gone smoothly, and Rhaegar demands our presence. Robb- you and Rickon shall remain here, I think, with Serena- but the rest of us shall go.”

Later, as they all left the breakfast hall, Lyanna caught Sansa’s arm and led her away from the others.

“Perhaps you ought to dye your hair,” she said seriously, and hesitated for a moment before finishing. “Only for a short while, you understand; but enough to avoid the most pointed questions immediately, yes?”

…

Jaime and Cersei met Tyrion in King’s Landing.

“It was Daenerys Targaryen,” he said, when Jaime pressed. “She- did something- to the brightfire. The fire destroyed the base, and the shaking collapsed the rest of the Rock.”

“But the lion cages?”

“She bypassed them, somehow.” Tyrion shrugged. “Luck, I think, played a part- she was smart, however, more than anything. And if the tales are true of her dragon eggs... well. Lions have always hated and feared dragons. Had she had those eggs for some time, she would likely have stank of dragons, and scared those poor lions." He grimaced. "But- mostly- she just read old tales and used our own histories against us.”

Jaime sighed, and exhaled.

Two weeks later, he headed out to lead the Lannister forces.

…

They entered the Twins, and Sansa brushed back her thick braid of hair, dark as the stars above her.

The Freys were there, along with the rest of the Starks, and standing at the head of it all was Rhaegar- _King_ Rhaegar, Sansa corrected mentally. It wouldn’t do to slip up in front of such a large audience.

He embraced his wife, first, as was only proper; and then he turned to her.

“Lady Alayne,” he said, and Sansa felt her smile freeze. “I am truly glad you agreed to all this. Your composure and kindness has truly been a balm to a war-torn nation.”

“Agreed,” said Sansa, numbly. Then, tightly, skirting the boundaries of discourtesy, “Agreed to what, precisely, Your Majesty?”

Rhaegar frowned. _King,_ a part of Sansa’s mind corrected, and then, almost hysterically, she thought, _That is of_ absolute _unimportance-_

“A marriage,” said Rhaegar. “A marriage to my son, lady Alayne, as promised to the Vale before all of this.”

Sansa swallowed hard and was trying to pick words out of the dull white noise surrounding her when Lyanna stepped forwards, hand coming to rest on Sansa’s forearm.

“Alayne is only tired,” she murmured. “The travel was long, and we scarcely stopped to rest. Perhaps we can talk more on this after we have washed the dust off?”

“Of course,” said Rhaegar, moving away.

Before Sansa could speak any more, Walder Frey had come forwards with salted bread; and after that, Lyanna didn’t wait for the others to greet them, instead choosing to steer her away towards the woods with a firmly gracious smile directed at anyone who tried to stop them.

When she released Sansa’s arm, Sansa took four long steps away from her and straightened resolutely. She was trembling, she realized distantly; trembling with a rage that she’d never imagined herself to feel before. It prickled under her skin like a thunderstorm.

“Would you care to explain yourself?” Sansa asked coldly.

Lyanna breathed out, long and slow. “This will give you a shield better than anything else,” she said calmly. “Trust me.”

Sansa stared at her. “I don’t know any other way to say this,” she said, voice shaking. “I have tried to communicate it, but perhaps you- you are too _bull-headed_ to comprehend it: I do not trust you. I have not ever trusted you, my lady, and I never will. I don’t want to lie, I am _tired_ of lies-”

“Do you find my son a truly unbearable marriage prospect?” Lyanna asked, utterly courteous. It was grating. “For if you do, my lady, then we can work it out. I, of all people, shall not tell you that you must marry a man you hate.”

“No,” said Sansa. “You’re simply telling me the only reason you’ll accept for my refusal of a marriage.”

“What is so wrong about that?”

Sansa’s hands clenched. “My reasons are just as valid as yours were!” She said, loud enough to startle the birds from the trees. “All you are trying to do is take from me my choice, because you think them as foolish as I’m certain _your_ father and brothers thought your choices were twenty years ago!”

Lyanna’s face flushed as soon as Sansa brought up her father and brothers, her composure snapped like thin matchsticks. “I repented for my choices,” she snapped. “I _repent,_ every day, for those choices, and I am trying to stop you from making a similar one!”

“By removing _my_ choices,” hissed Sansa. “Just because you repented doesn’t mean that I will.”

They glared at each other, and then, abruptly, Lyanna threw her hands in the air and walked away- she returned, after a long time, and sat on a stump covered over with moss, uncaring to the state of her gown. She still looked irritated, but slightly calmer.

“I am not a queen,” she said.

Sansa folded her arms over her chest. “What?”

“I’m no queen,” repeated Lyanna. “Nor, in truth, Rhaegar’s wife. We never wed in a sept, you see; just in front of a heart tree. He was so determined to have another child- it didn’t matter to him the woman who bore it. But he spoke so very kindly to me. And I was caught, for my father wished me to marry Robert-” she snorted. “I was a fool. Young, yes, and desperate; but a fool, nonetheless.”

She lifted her eyes and met Sansa’s. “I understand you, Sansa. Do not think that I do not. The quiet, hopeless rage; the grief that doesn’t seem to shake off your bones. If you don’t trust me, then you do not trust me. But you do not exist in a vacuum. If you tell Rhaegar the truth, you jeopardize not only your own life- but a war. The Vale’s forces are necessary, and without you they’ll keep their neutrality.” Lyanna sighed, and rose, pressing a hand to Sansa’s shoulder before stepping away.

“We will not force you. If this is your decision- then do so.” Her tone hardened. “But if you do, _before_ you do, I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you chose your pride over my son, my daughter; over Robb and Bran and Rickon and _Arya-_ over your family. If you choose to kill us all, you will have the strength to look me in the eye.”

Sansa averted her face and closed her eyes, remembering the way Arya had stood tall against Joffrey’s abuses, the glacial rage on Alayne’s face before she flung herself off the Eyrie, the ache in Catelyn’s eyes even as she accepted her flaws. She breathed in, and opened her eyes.

“You’ll know my answer on the morrow,” she said coolly.

Lyanna’s face tightened, minutely. She nodded, however; and though she looked deeply unhappy to do so, she also looked like she meant it. Sansa kept her face blank, and it was only after she was alone that she dissolved into body-shaking shudders.

…

“Sansa!”

She turned, and saw Jon standing there, face sweaty. She straightened and forced her lips into a thin smile, waving him inside her room. It had taken Sansa hours to return to the castle.

Now, she was packing. She’d go to Lyanna in the morning and tell her that she couldn’t stay. Sansa’s patience- her trust- had run dry ages ago. When they demanded more of her, she couldn’t find it in herself to give it.

 _Let the gods do with them as they please. Arya and Bran and the others will be safe in Winterfell. I’m sure the Arryn forces aren’t necessary._ Her hands tossed a woolen gown a bit too violently; one of the soft cloth roses sewn into its neckline ripped off. _I am finished being a pawn in lords’ games._

“I didn’t know you were here- Aunt Catelyn didn’t tell me.” He hesitated. “By the time I found out, you’d disappeared.”

Sansa tipped her head to the side. “Close the door,” she said, after a pause, and Jon’s shoulders slumped resignedly.

“You lied to me,” she said, once Jon had turned back to her.

Jon spread his feet, arms behind his back, standing firm and rooted. “Yes.”

“You _lied,”_ said Sansa, shaking her head, jaw clenched, surprised at the depth of her anger even now. “You, and your mother, and my own _parents-_ how am I supposed to trust you? I try, Jon, again and again, and you break it, and then you ask me for just one more chance. How many times?”

“None,” said Jon. His eyes were very large and dark as he stood before her. “No more, I mean. I told- I told Aunt Catelyn. That this wasn’t acceptable. That I didn’t want this, not for you.”

Sansa snorted. “And what did she say?” She asked derisively. “That it was _necessary?”_

“She said that Rhaegar needed the Northern forces and wouldn’t hurt either of them,” said Jon levelly. “She said that once we told the truth, we didn’t know how my father would react. If he decided to kill you- none of us could’ve stopped him.”

“So you did it for my protection,” she said coolly.

“I did it for-” he broke himself off and muffled a sigh into his wrist. “I didn’t come here for this.”

“Then why did you come here?”

“Because it isn’t right,” said Jon. “This isn’t _right,_ this isn’t _honorable,_ and I’m sick of it. I’m tired of making other people make sacrifices when nothing is asked of me.” He sighed. “I’m trying to tell you that if you decide to leave right now, I’ll help you.”

Sansa reared back, eyes widening. _I can’t- I don’t understand. Why?_

Twenty years, and when had someone pushed aside their aspirations, their dreams, for Sansa’s own? When had she last been worth more to someone than their honor?

“What?” She asked, voice scraping her throat.

Jon spread his hands, smiling sadly. “I’m not going to make you stay here. Not any longer.”

“And your- what about the Vale forces?”

“We’ll figure it out. News is that Elia’s spoken to the Tyrells. It’ll be better if you’re there- but there’s a line, and we’ve crossed it far too many times.” He nodded to the packs. “Tell me when you’re done, and I’ll get you a horse.”

Sansa breathed out. She wanted to; there was no doubt of it. She wanted to run away and never look back.

But Jon looked at her, softly, gently, kindly- and he meant what he said. If Sansa continued on this path, she could flee; but she could never have whatever existed between them. Sansa felt her heart pound in her chest. She felt as if she were poised on a precipice.

 _He gave you a choice._ She gazed into her hands, and then she lifted her head proudly. _He knows what will come if I am to leave, and he still_ means _it._

“I don’t trust you,” she said bluntly. Jon flinched, and Sansa continued grimly. “I haven’t trusted you, not once, not ever. But-” she breathed in, slowly, “-I think I can.”

It was Jon’s turn for his head to snap up and look at her, startled.

“I’ve only ever wanted someone to give me a _choice,”_ said Sansa, stepping forwards until her the toes of her slippers nudged the curve of Jon’s instep. “I don’t know if I can forget what’s come between us. I don’t promise you kindness, Jon, nor my love, nor my trust.” She bit her lower lip. Jon’s eyes traced the motion. “But I can give you my respect, and my faithfulness. And that is easier made love than anything else.”

“Sansa,” he said, low and rumbling, “Sansa- what’re you saying?”

“That if you so much as think, once, that placing a blue and white cloak around my shoulders gives you the right to tell me what to do, I’ll stab you with your mother’s knife.” Sansa let her fingers flutter up, rest against the curve where his shoulder met his neck, her thumb resting over his pulse.

Jon didn’t seem to be breathing. His eyes, dark, glittering, remained focused on hers as his hand crept up, covering Sansa’s over his neck.

“If I ever do something like that,” he said, a small smile kicking up a corner of his mouth, “I’m sure I’ll deserve it.”

“I’m not _unreasonable,”_ said Sansa, and then, tilting upwards, fierce and unabashed, she kissed him.

…

“Do you feel better now, Lady Alayne?” Rhaegar asked solicitously, as they seated themselves for breakfast.

Sansa smiled thinly, eyes skipping past Rhaegar and straight to Lyanna, who was staring at Sansa and Jon’s entwined fingers- when Lyanna looked up at her, the dawning hope in her eyes made Sansa smile, genuinely.

“Yes,” she said. “I think I do.”

…

Jaime leaned closer to the innkeeper, keeping a firm hold on the knife he had pressed against the man’s jugular.

“Listen to me very, very carefully,” he said. “I want a former prince. I don’t particularly care about you, or your family, or your inn- which means that if you don’t leave me very, _very_ satisfied, tomorrow morning you probably won’t have any of it, up to and including your life.”

He smiled, very wide.

“There was a- a- man here,” the innkeeper said, straining against Jaime’s grip. “He had purple eyes, but- dark hair. There was a- a- a kerchief!” The man nodded to a small drawer, and when one of Jaime’s men yanked it open, they found an embroidered scrap of silk. “He gave it! And- and I don’t know anythin’ more!”

Jaime tapped the blade against the man’s neck and then, slowly, nodded. “Where’d he go?”

“North, I think.”

“Fine.” He let go of the man and walked out. “Leave them,” he ordered, almost absently, to the men holding the innkeeper’s wife and children, and mounted his horse. “We’re going hunting.”

…

When notice winged its way over to King’s Landing, Cersei went white.

“Bring me Lord Baelish,” she ordered, and stared out the window.

 _Choked,_ she heard Jon Targaryen say, vicious in his callous mockery. _Surprised._

For weeks, Cersei had been furious, had been seething. But she’d had to choose between her brother’s safety and her dead son’s vengeance, and she couldn’t let Jaime go, not now- times had changed, however, now that she was safe in King’s Landing.

The click of the door echoed through the council room as Petyr entered.

“You mentioned a friend once,” said Cersei, not bothering with pleasantries.

Petyr frowned. “I’m not certain I understand.”

“A friend,” said Cersei, “from the North.”

Slowly, Petyr’s brow cleared.

“Yes,” he said. “I- I still have contact with him.”

“You will send him a raven,” Cersei ordered, hands curving over the back of the chair she gripped, tight enough to leave bruises along the meat of her palms. “You will tell him that if he wishes for the North, he will kill Jon Targaryen. More precisely- I shall send those instructions at a later time.”

_Let him feel even a fraction of my despair._

“The Targaryens destroyed Casterly Rock,” she said suddenly, sharply. “They named a castle a fitting pyre for their resistance. I name a wedding the fitting price for my son, do you understand me, my lord?”

Petyr sketched a bow, but Cersei could see the confusion in his eyes. She waved him away and tightened her hands on the back of the chair, hard enough that she could feel the splinters rub against them- she welcomed the sweet sting, and didn’t shed a single tear.

…

“Do I _have_ to give a speech?”

“It’s customary,” said Catelyn mildly. “Particularly as the last Arryn- it would be surprising if you didn’t.”

_And we can’t afford anyone’s suspicions on that day._

Sansa didn’t quite sigh at the thought. Catelyn reached forwards and pressed a hand to her wrist.

“Just a short one,” she said. “It’s easy- tell them that you’re glad for their presence, and that you look forwards to victory. They’ll all be more occupied with the bedding, anyhow.”

After a very long silence, Sansa inclined her head.

They were going over the details of the wedding. Catelyn had the wedding cloak spread over her lap, and Sansa was commenting on a list Catelyn had constructed the day before. Late afternoon light shone in through the window; it left Sansa with a mild headache.

“Is it truly necessary that we have two weddings?” Sansa asked, wearier than she’d intended.

Catelyn’s lips twitched. “You’ll be glad of it in ten years. One wedding by the old gods, and the other by the new. One wedding in private; another, of course, in the eyes of all the Seven Kingdoms.”

“If we all survive that long,” Sansa muttered under her breath, then sighed, reading the next point. “I’ll be unaccompanied, of course.”

She had almost written that when Catelyn said, sharply, “No, of course not! Ned will hand you over. Your father must-”

“And yet,” said Sansa acidly, “nobody else knows that he is my father.”

Catelyn looked away. Finally, she said, “I understand that you’re angry.”

“I don’t quite see the point of this conversation,” Sansa said. “You’ve proven that it doesn’t matter to you how I feel, or think. I am not a child, Lady Catelyn: if you said something to me, if it made sense, then I would never act to hurt Arya or Jon or _anyone-_ but instead of asking, you chose to make those decisions.” She rose to her feet and stacked the papers neatly. “After apologizing, you didn’t change. Jon _did._ How am I supposed to forgive that?”

Sansa sighed, then. “I don’t- I can’t hold to my rage, not forever. But I shall tell to you what I told Jon when I accepted the marriage: this is my last straw. If you attempt to take my choices from me, then I shall leave, and not look back.”

“I,” said Catelyn, quietly. Then she nodded, slowly. “I am sorry. You- are used to freedom, and I am unused to giving it, I think.” She stood, as well, the cloak falling to the floor, and extended a hand to Sansa. “If I do something that you find unconscionable- or something lesser than that, as well- tell me.” Her eyes were soft and hard, all at once. “One woman to another.”

Not mother to daughter.

 _Perhaps there is something to be found here, after all,_ thought Sansa, and met Catelyn’s gesture with her own.

…

Sansa entered the apple orchard- it was the closest one could get to a godswood in the Twins, which had irked Jon but hadn’t mattered much in the larger scheme of things. The crisp scent hung over the entire crowd, and Sansa swallowed hard; she moved forwards steadily.

The gown she wore now was simple: dyed cotton from the North, altered to fit her. It complimented her dark hair, however, and according to Lyanna, brought out her eyes. There was a crown of moonblooms woven into her hair. Ned accompanied her- Catelyn had suggested a compromise, in the end, where Sansa was accompanied in one wedding and walked in alone at the other. Sansa had asked him to hand her off at this one- it was smaller, after all, and more private.

Ned led her up to the base of the largest apple tree in the orchard, where Jon was waiting.

A wind picked up.

Sansa scarce heard the words Jon said- there was an ache in her chest, a bittersweet longing; there were so many people who better deserved this place, who better deserved this position. She was tired, and angry, and had been lonely for so _long-_

“Do you take me?”

The words were louder, more weighted. Sansa didn’t startle, but she did blink, once, forcing away the sharpest-edged emotion.

“I take you,” she said quietly. “From this day until my last. I swear it, by the old gods and the new.”

Slowly, he laced his fingers through hers. The kiss he pressed to her lips was dry, soft enough that Sansa scarce felt it. When he pulled away, she extended her other hand and brushed the knuckles of his hand, eyes locked on his. She wouldn’t do more, not when everyone was watching. As between the two of them, there weren’t lies any longer- they had both accepted the proposal, and in the end, that was what mattered.

Then she turned back to her parents, to Jon’s parents- and smiled, as polished and flawless as a diamond.

…

Sansa snuck away from the most boisterous celebrations in favor of a few minutes alone- she’d seen a small balcony a few hallways from the hall in which everyone was eating lunch, and she rather wanted the silence.

In less than an hour, they’d start dressing her in the silk gown that would serve as her true wedding dress- but until then, Sansa wanted a few minutes to herself.

Her eyes slipped closed, and she drew the marriage cloak around herself, tighter, against the chill wind. The Twins were lovely, large and symmetrical; built of a stone just a few shades lighter than Shaggydog’s fur. Best of all, there were numerous small balconies from which she could see the sunset.

Minutes later, she heard a man hiss something angrily. Sansa looked around her, vaguely panicked: from the feast hall, there was only one way out; and even more than that, if they wanted some measure of privacy, this would be the first place they’d find. There was a thick curtain of moonbloom vines that could, in a pinch, serve as a good cover. Sansa slid behind it just before two men strode onto it.

“-number of _guards,”_ said one, in a sharp, carrying whisper. Sansa could see his face: pink and flushed, with pale spots of tension standing out in various areas.

The other man’s face was angled away from her, but he had dark hair cropped close to his skull. When he spoke, his voice was soft and low; Sansa had to strain to hear.

“All you have I have given you, and you would do well to remember that. You are the only man who can do this, do you understand me?”

_I’ve heard that man’s voice somewhere._

But the chances of that were… negligible. Sansa dismissed it in favor of observing the dark shade the first man’s face flushed. She waited, worrying, slightly, over what would happen if they began to brawl- but her fears appeared to be unfounded, as shown when both turned and walked back towards the feast hall.

After a moment, Sansa emerged, hair catching on the leaves, pale moonbloom petals showering her. It was a good thing Catelyn had insisted on an entirely different wardrobe for the wedding in the sept, for they’d certainly need to redo her hair and clothes entirely.

…

Hours later, Sansa’s head ached from the weight of her hair. Catelyn had braided it high, and then woven in both flowers and precious stones, and the weight was difficult on her neck. The line of guests was endless, and the food was- while good- nowhere near enough to distract her from her irritation.

Right on cue, Arya and Bran burst into laughter; they were seated at the end of the high table, while Sansa and Jon were in the seats of honor, and the abrupt desire to leave all this behind and go sit with them startled Sansa in its severity.

Deliberately, she turned away from that, looking over to Jon as another bannerman came up to introduce themselves and express their congratulations.

“Lord Roose,” said Jon, nodding to the pale-eyed man. “I hope you are enjoying yourself?”

“I am,” he said, sketching a bow. “I simply wished to tell you and your wife, Your Majesty: may you have many years of happiness to look forward to, once this war is over.”

 _I’ve heard him somewhere._ Sansa mulled it over, and then realized: back on the balcony. She must have heard him before this, talking about something to Ned, or Jon himself- that was why she’d recognized him.

“We thank you, my lord,” said Sansa, smiling warmly at him.

…

Jaime’s eyes narrowed.

Hunting was an art- hunting humans, more than anything. Luck, too, and right then there was something in the air that told Jaime he was close.

He turned to one of the men beside him, and said, “Release the dogs. Use that scrap the innkeeper gave to put them on the scent.”

…

Roose was stepping away, going down the steps, when he abruptly halted and almost fell down the last few stairs. Sansa frowned and Jon rose slightly, arm outstretched as if to help-

“Blasted thing,” said Roose, turning back to Jon reassuringly. He tapped his knee. “Ever since that battle with the wildlings, it’s been getting harder and harder to bend this knee.”

Even as he said it, there was a clamor from Bran’s end, where his silver goblet clattered against the floor. Roose left, walking away, and Sansa felt as if all the blood had drained from her face as she watched his back.

Her hand ran over her cheek, feeling the ache that had faded months ago- she knew, suddenly, all that she’d missed for hours. Her cheekbone ached like shattered glass, and Sansa was afraid, _terrified-_ that she was right. It had taken the sound of metal loud in her ears, an echo of a gauntleted fist crashing into flesh, of Roose saying _bend the knee;_ but she was almost certain-

“Roose,” she said, quietly, turning to Jon with a firm smile. “One of your father’s bannermen?”

“Yes,” said Jon. “Lord of the Dreadfort- Roose Bolton. Head of his house, too.” He grinned easily- wine, it seemed, had turned him cheerful. “He’s quite strange, I agree- but overall loyal.”

Sansa swallowed, hard, and felt her nails bite into her hands. _Bolton,_ she thought. _Loyal as any man who’d turn his back for gold. Or power, or even pride. No loyal bannerman would have asked how much longer he’d have to bend the knee. No loyal lord would have been at Harrenhal in the first place._ She tried to catch Arya’s eye, but she was so far away; too far for Sansa to communicate anything, anyhow.

_I have to do something._

…

Rhaenys entered the sept, arm looped through her mother’s.

The sun was bright, as it usually was in the Reach. Her dark curls had been brushed and washed neatly, and they hung freely down her back. Martell jewelry spanned her wrists and neck. The people in attendance were mostly strangers, but Oberyn was there behind Willas, two of his daughters arrayed neatly behind him as well.

The green and gold glass that served as a ceiling for the sept threw deep shadows across the floor. It reminded Rhaenys of her gambols in the Kingswood when she was still too young to know better. When she looked up, however, Willas was still there. Grief had still carved new lines into her mother’s face. Aegon was still missing.

 _I am a princess twice over._ She did not smile, but kept her face relaxed- mimicking her mother’s expressions when she wore her crown. _This world will bend to my will, or I will break it._ Haughty, forbidding, lovelier than any star. _I am Rhaenys Targaryen of Dorne._

_I am a dragon made of sun-flesh, and you will learn to fear me._

…

“You’ll have to speak soon,” Jon murmured, and Sansa startled.

“I- _yes,”_ she said, inspiration flashing through her. Then, louder: “I have to prepare for that- just a few last minute things.”

“D’you want me to come with you?”

Sansa pushed her chair back and shook her head. “I’ll take Arya- don’t worry. I’ll be back soon, alright?”

He nodded, and Sansa approached Arya’s chair with a smile plastered across her face. “Come with me,” she hissed into her ear.

Arya followed her to a small side-room, where Sansa promptly locked the door and turned to her.

“Do you know Roose Bolton?” She asked.

“Father’s bannerman?” Arya shrugged. “I know _of_ him- yes. Why?”

“How loyal do you think he is?”

“Quite. _Why?”_

Sansa breathed out, long and slow. “When I was in Harrenhal, I- spied on Petyr. At the very beginning. He spoke to a man he named Lord Bolton, and promised him he wouldn’t have to bend the knee for much longer.”

Arya paled. “You’re certain of this?”

_Yes._

“As certain as I can be.” Sansa lifted her shoulders, helplessly. “Not a guarantee. And it was before we declared war, so not truly treason- but. Today. I left the lunch feast and went for a short break. I heard a man that sounded eerily like Roose Bolton tell someone that he was the only person who could so something.”

“We have to tell Father,” said Arya.

“I would’ve, but- I don’t know if he’s going to do anything now. I don’t have _proof.”_

“And if we tell anyone,” Arya murmured, “they’ll start a panic. Especially if you’re wrong.”

“But if I’m not-”

“-then we should be prepared.”

“Yes.” Sansa bit her lip. “If he was in the Riverlands months ago, he could’ve had the chance to turn the Freys- they already have blood relations to the Lannisters.”

“I don’t think it’ll be anything that- big,” said Arya, frowning thoughtfully. “The Freys aren’t fools. If the war was going badly, they might have; but not now. Not with Rhaegar restored and the news from the Reach. Not with the Vale forces joining our cause. And if news about Casterly Rock is correct-” she nodded. “It’ll be something small. Probably trying to kill you, or Jon. If they’re trying anything in the first place that is.”

“Something small, then. Two men, maybe three at the most. Though I think it’s just one man.” Sansa hesitated. “Do you think you can find them- or him?”

“The Twins are a very big set of castles,” said Arya flatly.

Sansa sighed. “I know _that-_ but pretty much everyone’s at the wedding. It’s a big deal. The rest of the castle will be quite empty.” She was wringing her hands, she realized distantly; abruptly, she stopped.

“If I was trying to kill either of you,” Arya mused, “I’d do it during- or after- the bedding.” At Sansa’s alarmed look, she rolled her eyes irritably. “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going to become an assassin or some such thing- it’s just common sense. You’re watched very carefully during the wedding, and even moreso during the feast. But once the bedding happens- it’s fairly simple to stick a knife into someone’s body. Or to enter a set of rooms and stab the bride and groom, particularly-”

“-if they aren’t wearing clothes,” Sansa finished, faintly.

Arya nodded.

“So I need to stop the bedding.” Sansa rubbed her eyes desperately. “You might as well ask me to deliver the moon, or- or- or Garth Greenhand’s _crown_ for all that I can do it.”

“We’re not certain,” said Arya, brushing Sansa’s elbow encouragingly. “But- just delay, I suppose, as best you can. I’ll look as best I can, and if nothing else, I’ll just patrol. Use the direwolves and see if there’s anything going on that’s- I don’t know- suspicious.”

There was a rapping sound at the door- and then, pitched slightly lowly, they heard Bran say, “Hurry up! They’re getting impatient.”

“Go,” said Sansa. “I’ll keep their attention, and- I’ll do my best to delay the bedding as long as I can. If you find anything, send- send one of the direwolves back into the hall.”

Arya nodded, again, and Sansa ran a hand through her hair, scrubbing away the tension. Then she turned back to Arya.

“Be safe,” she said. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

Shoulders thrown back, Sansa walked out.

…

Jaime called the dogs off with a sharp whistle.

He dismounted the horse, walking slowly over to the prince who was barely standing- blood spotted his hand and dripped liberally down one leg. He glared up at Jaime through his dark fringe defiantly.

“Aegon Targaryen,” said Jaime, feeling a thin smile curl over his lips. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Have you?” Aegon snarled. “I don’t quite _care,_ Kingslayer. You owe my father your _life._ What happened to Lannisters paying their debts?”

“Your aunt took care of all that very quickly,” Jaime told him coldly.

“I ought to kill you- what?” He levered himself further upright, leaning heavily against the tree behind him. “Dany? What did she do?”

Jaime leaned forwards, teeth bared. “Killed my father,” he bit out. “Killed half my family.”

_“How?”_

“She destroyed Casterly Rock.” He spat on the floor and grabbed Aegon’s arm, ignoring his cry of pain. He’d have to learn to deal with it if he ever wanted to be a proper warrior, anyhow. “So: the debts are paid. I’m returning some of the interest now, in fact.”

“So you’ll kill me?” Aegon asked. He tried to look brave, but his breath was shallow, and his skin was pale.

“No,” said Jaime. “You were once a prince.”

Under his breath, Aegon muttered, “I still am.”

Jaime ignored him. “I’ll be sending you to my brother in King’s Landing. Let him deal with the politics of- _you._ Perhaps your mother will even want you badly enough to make some sort of deal with Tyrion.” He shoved the boy towards the horses. “Now, _march.”_

…

Sansa delayed giving the speech for as long as she could- finally, Jon just pushed her onto the small wooden stage they’d constructed specifically for the speeches. There was a small set of steps at the back, but it was a ways from where everyone else was going to stand.

 _Keep their attention,_ she thought, as she waited for the noise to settle down.

“I’d like to thank everyone for coming,” she began, dredging up a smile, “particularly on such short notice. The war has hurt us all, I think- we’ve forgotten to be happy. Hopefully this marriage shall serve as a- a hope, in these dark times.”

Sansa could see their waning attention, and she cursed them silently.

What she’d just said was standard, and if she were to step down now nobody would think anything of it. _There might be a murderer in these very walls. You can’t falter now._ Sansa swallowed and continued.

“In no time before have the realms been bound so closely in marriage,” she said earnestly. “The royal family holds blood relations to five realms as of today. Together, we can surely craft a peace that will last for decades.” _You are a princess now. Your words are truth- so take rumor and weave reality out of wind._ “They say that Princess Daenerys, King Rhaegar’s sister- my husband’s aunt- was angry enough to destroy a castle that has stood for thousands of years. She did this while alone, hurt, surrounded by enem-”

Her voice trailed off when she saw the pale flash of Summer, at the back of the audience. Sansa’s mouth went dry.

 _Arya’s found something._ Her hands started to shake, and she smoothed them over the sides of her gown. _Keep their attention. Delay them._

_Whatever you do, delay the bedding._

“-while surrounded by Lannisters,” Sansa went on, voice steady by some miracle. “Casterly Rock is naught but ash and dust, destroyed by Targaryen fire and blood. We have barely begun this war, my lords, but already the Lannisters are faltering.”

She shifted, and saw some of the men’s eyes dip away, saw them rustle impatiently. What use had they for the prattling of a girl? They only wanted a bedding.

_If you want to hold their attention, you’re going to have to do more. If you want to delay the bedding, you’re going to have to be better._

“And if we are to fight together, if we are to fight for a common cause, there can be no falsehoods between us.” Sansa didn’t look over at Jon, at Lyanna, at Ned and Catelyn and- and _Rhaegar._ This was more important than any of them. “If you are to be my bannermen, then I find that I cannot stand before you and tell more lies.”

Jon began to move towards her- she could see him, just barely, out of the corner of her eye.

“The truth is important,” she said, calmer than she felt. “It is most important in our leaders.” Jon was almost beside her, and Sansa turned away, faced the audience, spread her arms wide.

_Arya, find them. Do it quickly, and do it loudly, I am begging you._

“I killed Joffrey Lannister,” she announced. There was a startled silence, then, and Sansa didn’t let herself stop. “I placed a knife through the back of King Joffrey’s neck, and I have not once regretted it.” _I have wished that I didn’t have to- but that is another story entirely._ “But, you see, that is not the entire tale.”

Sansa couldn’t stop now. She felt as if she were in Harrenhal again, knowing that the decision to jump off a windowsill was utterly stupid but unable to stop herself _now,_ after she’d actually jumped off and was in midair.

“No, there is one last thing that must be told,” said Sansa, and it was pitched loud enough that everyone could hear. “You see: I am not Alayne Arryn. My name is Sansa Stark, trueborn daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, and-”

Louder than the men’s whispers, louder than Sansa’s speech, came a single bloodcurdling scream from outside the hall, cutting off all noise. Sansa sagged against Jon, relief flooding her bones.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Sansa muttered. “We ought to go check that out, wouldn’t you say?”

To her own ears, it sounded unsurprised; she ignored Jon’s suspicious look and instead, before he could comment, dragged him off the stage, towards the source of the sound.

…

By the time they entered the room, Arya was shaking.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, but it had all happened so _quickly-_ Arya was left trying to process, even as Jon and Sansa and the rest of their family spilled into the room.

“Arya?” Jon asked, staring at her.

Arya didn’t hiccup. “We- this was your room,” she said, meeting Sansa’s eyes, behind Jon. “They would’ve put you here, after the bedding. You can see the-” she waved her hand at the bed, where rose petals were sprinkled around the mattress.

Sansa turned red.

Jon’s lips tightened. “Do you know who it is?” He asked.

“I’ve never seen him before.”

Sansa shifted around Jon, and paled at the sight of the man’s body- the blood, the gore. Arya was impressed that she didn’t vomit.

“He spoke to Roose Bolton during lunch,” said Sansa quietly. “I- I saw him. I know it’s him.”

There was a rustling noise by the door, which they all ignored.

“You’re certain?”

She nodded, and turned back to Arya. “What happened?”

“I was… walking.” Arya hesitated. “Your rooms would’ve been in this hallway, I knew that much- so I came here. And Nymeria snapped at the door- everything was empty, they were looking for any movement- and I thought there was something behind it, so I sent Summer back.”

“I saw him,” said Sansa.

Arya nodded. “I would’ve waited for him to come out, but Lady was impatient.” Her lips twitched wanly. “She broke the door down. The man was carrying a knife, though; Shaggydog and Grey Wind drew his attention- Grey Wind bit his leg- and Lady ripped his throat out.”

If Lady’d had the slightest bit more patience, they could’ve had an invaluable source of information. Arya didn’t say it, but when she looked, pointedly, at Sansa, her sister appeared to have gotten the message: Lady wasn’t tame. Perhaps not ever.

Sansa nodded, minutely.

“Then where’s Roose Bolton?” Her mother demanded.

Arya stilled. She had almost forgotten that there were other people in the room. But her mother had a valid point: this man hadn’t acted alone, and even if they only had Sansa’s testimony as to Roose Bolton’s guilt, this was enough to at least speak to him.

_We have to find him._

Jon’s eyes were narrowing. “You- you _planned_ this?”

“Not entirely,” said Sansa absently, craning her neck to search for someone in the crowd. “It was mostly just gut feelings and theories.”

“Talk about your feelings later,” Arya snapped, already striding towards the door. “We have to get to the stables.”

…

“There are two horses missing here,” said Lyanna, eyes large and glittering in the darkness.

Ned folded his arms over his chest and turned to the stablemaster. “Who took them?” He asked, low and fierce. “Lord Bolton took one, but who took the other?”

“And,” commented Benjen, “why didn’t you _stop_ them?”

Sansa, Jon, Bran and Arya stood close to one another, eyeing everything dubiously; Catelyn was beside them, and Lyanna reflected, ruefully, that she’d never seen the other woman so angry, so deeply outraged, as when Sansa chose to jump off the stage rather than face the consequences of her speech.

 _Speaking of…_ Lyanna frowned, turning to ensure that she wasn’t missing someone. _Where’s-_

“‘Twas the King, milord,” the stablemaster stammered, cringing away. “Didn’t even ask nothin’, just took it and left. Thought there was somethin’ more important goin’ on, beg your pardon, so I just noted it down here-”

Benjen strode over to the table the stablemaster indicated and pulled out a small notebook.

“He’s hot on Roose’s heels, then,” he said, tapping at one of the columns. “Missed him by a few heartbeats, I’d say.”

“It makes sense,” said Lyanna, slowly. The others turned to look at her. “Rhaegar always was a good tracker. And if Bolton crosses the river, we’ll never find him. As it is, it’s difficult in the dark. It’s a good thing that he moved so fast.”

Arya shifted uneasily. “He must have left,” she said. “As soon as he found out whom we suspected. Decided that Lord Bolton would come here, and…”

“Well. Nobody’s ever said Father hasn’t lacked for brains.” Jon smiled tightly.

Lyanna snorted. “Never that,” she agreed. Then, after a pause, “Let’s go back inside. Rhaegar will be back soon enough- no purpose served in waiting here.”

…

As Rhaenys rose to her feet, the sept exploded into cheers.

She exhaled, slowly. The green and gold cloak was warm around her shoulders, made of the finest cloth the Tyrells could find; but she felt, abruptly, a sudden chill. Rhaenys tipped her head backwards, eyeing the dome.

And though it was nothing but chance- nothing but a strange fluke- the clouds obscured the sun, for just a heartbeat, turning the entire sept storm-dark.

It faded, and the cheers loudened as if in response.

Rhaenys, however, couldn’t forget it.

…

They ended up in a small solar, curling over each other on the rugs when the number of chairs wasn’t enough. Sansa undid her braids, and the clatter of the jewelry against the flagstones was a reassuring background sound to everybody else, it seemed- or, at the least, they didn’t comment on it. One by one, they dropped off to sleep, until it was only Jon and Sansa awake.

Sometime after midnight, a Frey knocked on the door. Jon opened it, and spoke quietly; he returned with a letter that he folded neatly and placed on a nearby table.

“Roose Bolton worked for the Lannisters,” he said, quietly- the rest of the room was still asleep. “That’s one of almost seven letters that Cersei Lannister sent to him. It tells him to put hemlock into the wine in our room, and kill us the morning after if we haven’t drunk the wine.”

Sansa breathed out, slowly. _So close- any closer, and we’d be dead. Had I missed it…_

“The man’s name?”

“The one who was in our rooms?”

She nodded.

“Ramsay Snow.” Jon settled further against the side of the hearth, slouching comfortably. “A Frey recognized him. Though that isn’t the fascinating part.”

“What is?”

“Petyr Baelish was the man who served as the middleman for the letters,” Jon told her.

Sansa leaned back, brushing a hand through her hair wearily. “It’s rather terrifying,” she said lowly. Jon sent her a confused look; she waved a hand. “How close we came to dying today.”

“Aye. Not, of course, that you weren’t completely idiotic-” he bobbed his head irritably at Sansa’s protests. “I realize what you were _trying_ to do, by telling everyone everything, but it was still stupid. You could’ve come up with a better plan if you’d only stopped and _thought,_ or asked me.”

“When you were so drunk you were actually smiling at strangers?” Sansa asked dryly.

Jon huffed a laugh. “You’ll have a hell of a time explaining yourself to my father, though.”

“At least I have the protection of being your wife.”

He pulled a face, but conceded the point. “True.”

 _I’d thought that telling the world I wasn’t Alayne Arryn would be a bigger deal._ Sansa shifted against the back of the chair she was leaning against and felt a smile tug at her lips. _If I had to tell the world, this might have been the best way._

…

The next morning, however, Rhaegar hadn’t returned.

Ned was looking more tensed than he’d been for ages when he sent out riders to search for the King- a few minutes later, he, too, got on a horse and rode out.

He came back with two corpses.

 

…

Lyanna breathed out.

She didn’t love Rhaegar- once, perhaps, she had, but that was before Rhaegar imprisoned her in Dorne, before Rhaegar’s father killed Brandon and Lyanna’s _father-_

In the end, Rhaegar had been selfish, had been cruelly selfish; and Lyanna hadn’t ever been able to forgive him for that. But Rhaegar was also the king, and Lyanna had accepted her fate as his wife as easily as she could.

He’d wanted her at court when his true wife and all her family didn’t; Lyanna had borne their hatred and gone south, when Jon turned twelve.

When Jon was twelve and Rhaegar had insisted they come south, she’d gone. When Rhaegar insisted on another child, she’d accepted. Lyanna had spent so many long years mourning and broken, particularly after she was abandoned by Benjen; it’d been a long, difficult road back to sanity. So many of those nights had been spent cursing Rhaegar’s name and heritage- naming his soul blacker than the darkest storm-clouds above Storm’s End.

In the end, she bore him two children, and offered him her family’s support. It was more than any other would have likely given.

But- it was just- Lyanna had once loved Rhaegar, and, after that, she’d hated him; now, it’d settled into something more sedate- tempered, perhaps, but never dulled. But for all that she might have hated Rhaegar, she’d never have wished this kind of a death on him, not even at her angriest.

She stared at his body: the slash running diagonally across his front, a wound that would’ve been easily repelled if he’d been wearing any kind of armor. The blood had crusted over, matting the cloth to his chest. His silvered hair glittered among the mud and dirt like stags through a gutter, like stars through a cloud.

“Lya,” said Benjen, pressing a hand to the crook of her elbow, concerned.

She ripped away from him, away from Ned’s quiet grief- Lyanna couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear their patronizing looks, their kindnesses. She ought to hate this man, and Lyanna had spent so many years hating him, had spent so long trying to find forgiveness in some corner of her heart- and here he was, dead before she could find it.

A moment later, a woman stepped forwards. It took Lyanna several moments to identify her through the tears pooling in her eyes. When she blinked furiously, however, they only streaked down her face.

“Come inside,” said Sansa, eyes gentle, voice gentler. “They’ll bring the body inside soon enough. It’ll be better if you’re there.”

“Yes,” said Lyanna, high and piercing. “I-”

“We shall clean him,” Sansa continued, ignoring everyone else, eyes focused entirely on Lyanna’s. “And on the morrow, we can burn the body. Come, lady Lyanna: let us go.”

Sansa helped Lyanna wash Rhaegar’s body- peeling the mud-slick clothes away from his skin, washing the grime off his hair. Arya and Catelyn joined them, later, and helped wrap him in black and red silently.

“I do not know the songs for kings,” said Sansa, once he’d been bound completely, swaddled as if he were a babe. “Nor for fathers, or bards. And I do not know if the Warrior’s Lament is a song appropriate for a man who disliked war from the start.”

“We shall not be singing any songs,” said Lyanna. Her throat ached, and her eyes burned; but she wasn’t sobbing. She felt as cold and empty as the Wall itself, hollowed out. “There are no songs to be sung for crimes such as this.”

The Lannisters had done this. The Lannisters had _done this._

Lyanna could feel something fill those cold, empty holes inside her, little blossoms of heat breathing life back into her inch by inch: fury, hotter than any wildfire.

“We shall burn him today,” she said, and turned, meeting Sansa’s eyes, and Catelyn’s and Arya’s behind her. “And then we shall ride south, and we shall not rest until every Lannister in this gods-forsaken kingdom is _dead.”_

…

Cersei stared at the black-haired figure before her.

Pale skin; dark, curling hair. Eyes that could be of any color. Broad-shouldered, stiff-necked.

She knew what Tyrion would say, but Tyrion wasn’t there. And Cersei could hear, clear as a tolling bell, Jon Targaryen’s mockery: _he looked so surprised._ His hands had flickered through the air, cutting through the air in an ugly facsimile of a knife cutting through a man’s throat.

Cutting through _Joffrey’s_ throat.

Tyrion had advised Cersei against letting Rhaegar go, but she’d worn him- and the rest- down with reminders of Jaime’s usefulness. This served no purpose but her own rage.

 _I am a mother,_ she thought, breathing in the cold, deadly taste of vengeance. _I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and you can take my son and my father and my castle from me- but I am not defeated._

“Give me a knife,” she said, extending a hand to Ilyn Payne.

Her fingers closed over the cold hilt, and she stepped into the cell.

A prince like this was worth a public execution, at the least. Her brothers wanted to use him as a political pawn, after Cersei lost the other hostages they could have bargained with. But she could only hear Jon Targaryen’s mockery, only hear her own failures, only see the red blood that had stained Joffrey’s doublet, three shades darker than his doublet; and it was madness, madness, _madness-_

When Aegon Targaryen died, he died in a dark cell, choking on his own blood, from a knife wound through the back of his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: little soldier boy, come marching home.


	5. agape (unconditional love)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you,” he told her, and Sansa felt something blaze up inside of her in response, hot, flaming, unstoppable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter's about 19k long (almost twice that of previous chapters), and I can't quite believe the story's finished. I had an amazing time writing it, with loads of encouragement and help from a lot of people. So thank you to everyone who commented, kudo'd, talked about it, or read it- you guys are wonderful! 
> 
> Also, come talk to me at dialux.tumblr.com . I'm always up for screaming about fandom!

It was three days after the cremation that Sansa spoke to Jon next.

He was alone, as he’d been since he yelled at both his mother and Arya in the space of a single conversation- Jon hadn’t spoken to anyone after that, and nobody had tried to speak to him, either. His eyes had been stinging from the smoke of his father’s cremation pyre, and they hadn’t ever really stopped, no matter that he refused to let tears fall from them.

He was alone, and sitting on a hill that ended abruptly above the river, when she approached him.

Sansa handed him a cup of mulled wine, silently, and then settled beside him. Jon resisted the urge to pour the whole thing down into the frothing river below.

“Have you heard?” She asked, quiet enough that he could barely hear her.

“About what?” His voice rasped, rough from disuse. Sansa’s face tightened minutely- Jon realized what she was referring to, then, and inhaled sharply. It felt like breathing in shards of glass. “Oh, about Aegon? Yes. Mother insisted on telling me herself.”

 _As if she’d ever looked at Aegon kindly._ Jon’s hand clenched, the wooden cup creaking in his grasp. _As if I’ve ever been any better._

“I’m sorry,” said Sansa. “Nobody deserves to bear such tragedies. Not like this.”

“Is there a way to bear it then?” Jon asked. It was mean-spirited. It was low. It was, also, something he couldn’t bite back. “To see your father’s corpse, and then to hear your brother’s death, and then to find out that your favorite cousin’s escaped to Essos- like a _coward-_ tell me, Sansa, with all your years of wisdom: is there a way to bear this?”

Sansa blinked. Another woman- a softer woman- might have flinched, or cried. Sansa didn’t look at him, but her voice was very level when she spoke.

“I don’t know. But I do know that what you’re doing is unhealthy.”

“My _father_ is dead!”

“Yes,” said Sansa. “He is. And instead of looking for vengeance, or raising an army, or doing anything _useful,_ you’re sitting in the same clearing in which Rhaegar Targaryen killed Roose Bolton- sitting on the edge of a cliff, I might add, which is patently moronic- and you’ve done the same thing for the past two days, which I know because I’ve actually _followed_ you, and you never even noticed!”

Jon surged to his feet. “Would you like it better if I acted as if nothing had happened?”

“I would like it if you could act as the prince I know you to be.” She rose to her feet as well, slower than Jon. The sunlight caught her hair and illuminated it, turning it bright and brilliant as blood. “This isn’t you- there are things you aren’t telling anyone. You aren’t just mourning them, because if you were you would’ve stayed in the keep, and you would’ve been angry, and you would’ve been doing something.” Her eyes narrowed. “But all you do is spend hours here, in the same clearing where your father died, and I don’t understand why.”

Jon dropped the cup, chest tight with all the things he wanted to say, words clawing up his throat.

“You think I’m not angry?” He bared his teeth, shoulders hunching, wolf-like. “I’ve been nothing _but_ angry for days now!”

“Not angry enough to do something about it,” said Sansa, eyes gleaming.

“No,” Jon snapped. “Just angry enough that I can’t move without wanting to burn everything I see.” He laughed, lowly, mirthlessly. “I always thought Targaryen madness was an exaggeration. Now- I see what they were so afraid of. I’m terrified of myself.”

Sansa stepped closer to him. “I am not afraid of you,” she said, gently. Her hand came up, brushing over his cheek.

Jon inhaled raggedly. “You should be,” he whispered.

Sansa studied his face, palm smooth and soft against the rough bristle of his beard. After a long moment she sighed, pulling away. “But there is something more, isn’t there?”

 _When did you learn to look at me?_ Jon wondered, and it was more amused than weary, more wry than surprised. _When did you learn to see me?_

“You must speak,” said Sansa, when he remained silent. “You must _speak,_ Jon, to me if none else. And not because you owe me something- because you owe yourself something, and this is eating you up from the inside. Do you think we are all blind?”

“You tell me who can understand this, then. Robb? Arya? Bran? Their parents are alive and well. My mother? Aunt Catelyn? Uncle Ned? They’d not be able to look me in the eye after I spoke to them. They’d not be able to forgive me.”

Sansa stared at him. “While that was one of the most categorically stupid things I’ve ever heard you say-” Jon’s jaw clenched, but she continued without a pause, “-I wasn’t talking about them.”

He frowned. “Who?”

“A person who lost an entire family over the past year.” Sansa folded her arms over her chest, eyebrows lifting. “A person who left a realm behind. A person who lost almost everything, for quite a long time.” She bit her lip. “I’ve spent a long time being angry, Jon. Angry and proud and alone, and if you don’t think I understand you, then… let me tell you, you’re wrong.”

“I,” said Jon, after a long silence, dragging a hand down his face. He didn’t look closer at Sansa, but that was more because he didn’t think he could see the sharp edges of her eyes without bleeding. “I’d forgotten.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, voice gentling once more. “But I am your wife. You do not get to push me away.”

She’d been far quieter in her grief, but she’d spent as long with the Arryns as Jon ever had with the Starks. Just because she hadn’t wept constantly, or rent her clothes, or gone mad- it didn’t mean that she hadn’t mourned. And if she’d felt even a fraction of the ache that Jon was currently feeling, she was entirely stronger than Jon had believed.

Jon wasn’t looking at her, so he didn’t see her until her fingers rested, lightly, on his collarbone; until she was close enough to him that he could smell the faint scent of the lavender perfume she used. Her eyes were very wide, and very blue, and there was something so kind in them that he felt a lump well in his throat. Sansa looped her arms around his neck when he remained still, guiding his head down until their foreheads rested against each other.

“Tell me,” she whispered, and Jon could no less keep his silence than he could look away.

“I didn’t love them,” he breathed, eyes slipping shut at the force of his shame. He couldn’t bear to see Sansa’s horror when her husband’s true colors were revealed to her. “I hated Father for so long, because he hurt Mother, because he kept me from Winterfell, because he was so selfish- and Aegon. Who didn’t do anything wrong, who was just- outraged, for his mother’s sake, and so didn’t like me very much.” His voice cracked at the very end.

Jon swallowed, hard, and continued. “They always acted so superior about everything, all of them. And Aegon always called me a bastard when Father wasn’t around. And how- how do you mourn someone who you hated?”

 _Whom you hated,_ he thought bitterly. _Whom you loved. How do you mourn a person you can’t forgive?_

“I burnt rosemary wreaths,” said Sansa. Her shoulders quivered, slightly, with the force of a suppressed, mirthless laugh. “For Jon Arryn, and for Rowena, and for Alayne. I hated her for so long, because she left me behind; I hated _them,_ because they had everything I ever wanted. I couldn’t bring myself to weep, but every night I burned those wreaths, I felt lighter.”

And then, before he could say anything more, she slanted her mouth over his. Jon made a sharp, bitten-off cry at the sudden movement; his hand dug into the curve of her hip when she leaned in further. He poured all his fears into the kiss, deepening it, and then Sansa shifted so that both his feet were bracketing her own, her hand cupping his head, nails scraping against his scalp- twining around each other as close as they could while still fully clothed.

“We called you a witch,” Jon recalled, murmuring against her lips.

“Yes,” said Sansa. “I’ve not forgotten, Jon.”

Perhaps there were men who could resist that voice, those eyes, saying his name so quietly, so affectionately. Jon, however, was not such a man. He dipped closer, kissing her again, swallowing her gasp.

Finally, he managed to pull away.

“Sansa,” said Jon.

Her lips were red and swollen. Sansa inhaled, slowly, her eyes glittering, and then bit her lip.

“Come with me,” she said. “Mourn, if that is your wish- or do not. But you cannot go on as you have. Come back to the Twins, and make your plans, so that you can take your vengeance. You cannot stay here.”

“Mother will-”

“Lyanna won’t be angry,” Sansa told him, voice sharp. “She won’t. Not for this. Not for being confused on how you feel.”

“All she wants is to race off and take vengeance for Father,” Jon said lowly.

Sansa tipped her head to the side. “And what do you want?”

Jon studied her face, and then looked up at the sky, and then looked back down at the mug at his feet, the mulled wine spilled over his boots.

“To go home,” he said.

“And we’ll not be safe until the Lannisters are defeated,” she pointed out. “We’ll spend the rest of our lives peacefully if that’s what you want, but we’ll never manage to keep that if the Lannisters sit on the Iron Throne. So go off to war- defeat them.” Her chin tipped up, eyes sparking actinic blue. “And I’ll wait for you in Winterfell, and after all this is over, you can come back to me.”

 _I don’t want to,_ thought Jon, and then: _if I don’t, then no one will. If I don’t do anything, then Sansa could pay the price. Serena could pay the price._

“It’ll be a long road,” Jon warned her.

She smiled. “You forget: we’ve already walked a long road. We’ll not falter now, at the end of it all.”

He sighed, but the corners of his mouth were tipped up. Sansa’s smile widened into a grin, and she dragged him over to the horses.

“The quicker we get to the Twins,” she told him, “the quicker we get to go home.”

There was still a weight in his chest, like a stone. There was still a prickling behind his eyes, itching like dry smoke. There was still an open sore over his heart, like an infected wound. But right then, Jon felt like smiling.

“Then we’re moving _fast,”_ he replied, and spurred his horse into a gallop.

“Jon!” Sansa cried out, outraged.

He looked behind him and saw that her face looked halfway caught between a frown and a smile. The conflict left him breathless with laughter, but he paid for that moment of distraction when she caught up to him.

“Let’s try this fairly,” she said, and they were off, the wind whipping away their laughter, happy for the first time in ages.

…

“If the Vale soldiers meet us here-”

Lyanna cut herself off when the door opened, revealing Sansa- and then, slinking in behind her, Jon. He looked older, the planes of his face hard and cold; the harsh shadow of a beard across his jaw made his face look even paler than it usually was.

She’d been so worried for him.

Jon didn’t mourn as Lyanna did: he wasn’t loud or quick in his grief. But that kind of sadness wasn’t possible to indulge in times of war, and Lyanna had worried for it. What if Jon couldn’t move past it?

The morning after Rhaegar’s cremation, he’d yelled at her, and when Arya tried to stop him, he’d yelled at her too, and then he’d left. Lyanna had almost followed him, but there had been so much work to do- so many preparations for war- she couldn’t say it’d slipped her mind, but Jon hadn’t claimed as much of her attention as the worries over the Vale knights.

And now he returned, looking as sullen as he ever had. Lyanna’s eyes caught on the hand that he was keeping tightly intertwined with Sansa’s, hidden by the shadows of her skirts, and she bit back a smile.

“If the Vale soldiers meet us here,” she repeated, ignoring the two of them as best she could, “then we’ll need to hold these three villages first.”

Ned nodded. “We’ll need to take Harrenhal if we want to do that.”

“Then we know our first objective,” said Lyanna.

…

Robb was riding south with an army of Northern bannermen- Sansa and Arya were to return to Winterfell, leaving the Twins a week before he arrived. Everyone was fine with it, it seemed, except for Arya, who wanted to see battle, and Jon.

“It isn’t a fair trade,” he muttered, when Sansa busied herself with tying up the laces of her gown.  

“I lose a wife,” he explained. “All I get in return is a man who’s not half so handsome.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “That _man_ is your brother,” she said sardonically. “Also, Robb looks eerily like me, and you’ve actually said that before, so I don’t know who’s teaching you how to compliment women, but you’ve a stupid teacher.”

“Benjen,” said Jon, making a face, and Sansa snorted undignifiedly.

“You should’ve known better than to listen to him.”

“He said it always works for him!”

“Maybe nobody’s ever felt sorry enough for Uncle Benjen to tell him how ridiculous that sounds,” she told him. “But I assure you, there would’ve been many japes made after that.” Sansa stepped in front of him, presenting the laces at the back of her dress. “The quicker you do it-”

“-the quicker we can go home.” Jon exhaled loudly, as if he were annoyed, but his hands were deft and light on her stays. “I know, I know, you’ve said it enough times.” He pressed a kiss to the slope of her neck.

“I’ll say it as long as I need to,” said Sansa, turning, looping her arms over his neck and kissing him soundly before pulling away.

Her amusement faded, though, when she pulled her cloak over her shoulders, revealing the dagger that lay beneath it. She picked it up, running a finger over the sharp edge thoughtfully.

“Sansa?”

“I was so afraid,” she mused, glancing back at Jon. “When the Boltons were acting, I mean. But this knife was rather reassuring.” Sansa looked back at him. “This knife was yours, before it was mine.”

Jon tilted his head to the side. “It was,” he said carefully.

“You should take it,” she said, holding it out to him.

He shifted, but his hand didn’t lift the dagger from hers; just closed her fingers over it.

“Aye,” said Jon, softly. “It was mine. And then I gave it to you, Sansa, because I wanted to. It’s yours, now.”

 _I don’t want it,_ she thought. The only thing that Sansa saw when she held the damn thing was Joffrey’s blood, the red fountain that had spurted out when she stuck it in him. _Violence begets violence. I don’t want to ever kill someone again._

But it wasn’t quite fair of her to ask Jon to go off and kill, when he too was so exhausted of violence. _And if anyone tries to hurt me, I will not go quietly._

“Fine,” she said, voice small, and pressed a last, brief kiss to Jon’s lips before leaving.

…

“Be careful,” Catelyn told her, as Sansa readied her horse. “You’ve a good number of guards, Sansa, but brigands roam these lands. Stay safe.”

Sansa nodded, glancing over to Benjen- he was staying in the south, and he’d pulled most of his people to the south, too, to easier destroy the Lannisters. Most of them were coming south with  Robb’s forces.

“Of course,” she murmured, kissing her mother’s cheek. “Though I believe I’ll be safer than you. I’m not the one walking into a war.”

“All I’m doing is going home,” said Catelyn, smiling at her, before turning towards Arya. “And you, too, sweetling. Don’t do anything foolish.”

Arya made a face. “You tell Sansa to be safe and me not to do anything foolish? _Mother-”_

“I wonder why,” said Catelyn, dryly.

Sansa laughed and left Arya protesting, moving over to Ned. He was talking with Lyanna- and though he looked calm enough, she was gesticulating wildly. As Sansa got closer, she could hear Lyanna properly:

“If you go straight into the Westerlands you could get trapped,” she was saying.

Ned, as soon as he saw Sansa’s arrival, smiled at her, drawing her forwards.

“Sansa,” he said, sounding relieved. “Why don’t you talk to Lya for some time? I think your mother would like me to talk to her.” He patted her on the arm and walked away swiftly.

Lyanna’s jaw flexed. “Coward,” she said, though not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

Sansa raised an eyebrow, hiding her amusement.

“I thought you’d talked over the two-pronged approach,” she said. “You and Jon head to Harrenhal to get the Vale knights and Robb joins you- Ned and Catelyn head to Riverrun and get the Riverlands to bolster their forces before keeping the Westerlands under control. We’ve talked about it for weeks, now.”

“I worry,” said Lyanna. She shrugged. “You can’t blame me.”

 _I don’t,_ thought Sansa, leaning forward to place a hand on Lyanna’s elbow. _How many people have you seen leave? How many people have you seen die?_

“I did mean to thank you,” she said softly. “Or- acknowledge it, I suppose. When Rhaegar died… we embalmed him with Vale rituals.” Her lips twitched, faintly. “The same rituals Jon refused to honor, ironically enough. I know we burnt him in the Targaryen fashion, and I’m sure there must have been a few practices you’d have wanted to use, but-”

“But I wasn’t in such a place.”

Lyanna’s face usually looked hard, cold and polished as the marble of the Eyrie’s death halls. Right then, however, she looked gentle, her grey eyes the exact shade of a dove’s plumage, soft as a dove’s feathers.

“It usually happens like that,” Lyanna murmured. “I find that when I most need strength, it isn’t there.”

“Lyanna-”

“But to answer your question, I don’t care that Rhaegar’s funeral had no Northern practices. He’s rarely had much respect for my people or myself. In the end, Rhaegar was a Targaryen- and he died as one. Nothing else much matters.”

Sansa nodded, starting to step away, when Lyanna flung her arms around her, abruptly tight.

“I wish I’d known you,” she said fiercely, in Sansa’s ear. “I wish I could have known you, darling girl. I’m so sorry for it- that we’ve missed on so many years of your life.” Lyanna tipped her chin down, to look at her, and smiled. “I know Jon will miss you- but, I assure you, he won’t be the only one.”

 _I don’t-_ Sansa blinked, startled. _Oh._

“Thank you,” she said, her voice strange in her own ears, and slowly extricated herself from Lyanna’s grip. “I- I don’t know if I can give this to Jon,” she told Lyanna, holding out a handkerchief. “There likely won’t be time, and he had to go speak to the Freys- I’d be grateful if you could give this to him.”

Lyanna took it. “Of course,” she said.

When they rode off, heading back to Winterfell, Sansa didn’t feel half so achingly lonely as she had on the ride to the Twins.

…

The next morning, after they’d settled into an easy rhythm, Arya tipped her head over to her.

“Gendry’s going to be there,” she said.

“What?” Sansa asked, drawing her horse to a stop.

“Gendry’s going to be there,” said Arya, eyes tracing over Sansa’s frozen horse quizzically. “What’s the matter?”

“I’d forgotten about him,” Sansa said slowly.

Arya lifted her eyebrows. “Well, you had quite a bit on your mind, I suppose. But he’s in Wintertown, with Mikken- he’s trying to become an apprentice.”

“Trying?” She asked.

“Apparently four boys came from the Karhold just to have the opportunity to sit in the same room as Mikken,” said Arya dryly. “Gendry was really worried about them when we left. Poor boy can’t handle _competition.”_

“Not everyone can live on tears and anger.”

“Not everyone has parents who let them live like that.”

Sansa sighed, nudging her horse into motion again. “I rather think that your parents are better ones than most I’ve seen- both lordly and common.”

Arya cut a sharp look over her shoulder, but Sansa kept her face blithe and confident. The sentence was one that, only a few weeks before, would have been accompanied with a mocking look. Now, however, Sansa could say that she was only speaking the truth, and it wasn’t half as difficult as it might have been before.

…

Catelyn and Ned went south to Riverrun, from which they would lead the majority of the Riverland soldiers to the Westerlands; Jon and Lyanna stayed at the Twins, where they met up with Robb and then headed south-west to Harrenhal.

It was a long road, and a difficult one, and a tiring one.

Jon wrestled his exhaustion down every morning and kept his temper by virtue of the flutter of a single silk square, embroidered with a pale wolf picked out in painstaking detail alone.

…

When they arrived at Winterfell, Arya left Sansa to see Gendry; Sansa left her horse in the stables and headed towards the nursery.

It was empty, though a maid who was mopping nearby told her to go to Rickon’s rooms. When Sansa climbed the stairs to that wing, she heard the loud screams of children playing. She stepped inside, and saw Rickon tickling Serena’s belly with a feather, both of them giggling madly.

Sansa felt her lips twitch at the sight.

Rickon was not yet ten years old- he was nine, and Catelyn had fought long and hard to keep him safe in Winterfell while the rest of their family fought in the south. She’d wanted to send Bran with Sansa and Arya too, but Ned had refused.

 _Mother and Father,_ Sansa corrected herself, but it didn’t feel right even in her mind. It would take her some more time to actually call them her parents, it seemed.

She stepped further into the room, waving the nurse out when she saw her, and approached Rickon carefully.

“Rickon?” Sansa said, quietly, sinking to her knees beside them.

He turned abruptly, looking at her, and relaxed when he realized who was beside them. “Sansa!” He exclaimed, leaning forwards and giving her an easy hug. “When’d you come here?”

“Not quite an hour ago.” She tried to smile. “Arya’s gone to talk to her friend, but she’ll be here soon enough. How have you been?”

“Bored.” He made a face, then bent over Serena, nuzzling her cheek. “But Serena’s sweet. And she doesn’t keep asking me to do my letters, so I like spending time with her.”

Sansa laughed. “You’re hiding from Maester Luwin?”

“It’s not easy! Bran knows all the hiding places, you know, and I’ve found a couple more, but it isn’t _fair._ And it’s boring.” Rickon’s face shifted into something approximating a scowl, though he still looked too happy to pull it off properly. “Y’know, there was this time Bran and I rigged this bucket- and a wire- and some chicken feathers- and dumped it on Robb.” He dimpled. “It was hilarious.”

“Well,” said Sansa, biting back a laugh, “if you should search out places for yourself, you might even be able to play pranks on Bran when he- _gods!”_ Her voice turned high and sharp when little Serena, who hadn’t yet seen a nameday, reached out and yanked at a thin strand of Sansa’s bright hair. Slowly, Sansa extricated the hair from her fist. “That hurts, sweetling,” she told the little girl, studying her face closer than she’d ever done before.

Serena had Rhaegar’s eyes- all deep violet, all Targaryen purple- but the rest of her was Lyanna reborn. Perhaps most remarkable, however, was the sheer amount of hair on her head. Jon had commented on it before, but Sansa hadn’t expected this much.

“Her eyes are really pretty,” said Rickon.

“They are,” replied Sansa. “Very interesting, aren’t they?”

Distantly, she heard someone shouting; she frowned, and nodded to Rickon.

“I should probably see to that,” she told him, and got up.

She was at the door, turning the handle, when Arya flung it open.

“There are wildlings coming here,” she said, voice clipped. “Scouts just saw their banners, coming down the Kingsroad.”

Sansa’s heart dropped. “How many?”

“Around five hundred.”

“And we have, what-”

“-a hundred.” Arya hesitated. “That’s including women and children.”

Sansa looked behind her, at Rickon’s worried mien, at Serena’s chubby, untroubled face. She turned back to Arya.

“We can’t stay here, then.”

“We can’t just _leave,”_ Arya snapped.

“Well, we can’t exactly fight a pitched battle, can we?” Sansa retorted. “A hundred men against a thousand warriors? We’ll lose, and lose badly.”

“Then what do you want to do?” Arya asked.

She stepped back and placed a hand on Rickon’s shoulder.

“We leave,” she said. “We disappear into the woods. And while we’re getting ready… Rickon’s going to get the _castle_ ready.” She looked back at Arya, perfectly serious. “He was just telling me about all the time he pranked you.”

Arya frowned, but Rickon’s eyes lit up.

“You want to trap them?”

“I want to make them regret taking Winterfell.” Sansa folded her arms over her chest, eyes steady on Arya. “That won’t be so difficult. Instead of water in the buckets, take tar. Or bricks. Essentially, we rig the castle so they don’t feel comfortable walking inside it freely. Rig as many pranks, as many _dangerous_ pranks, as you can get your hands on.”

Slowly, she nodded.

“Fine.” Arya turned towards the door. “But you’ve got to move fast. I’ll tell everyone to start heading into the woods- you have an hour.”

“Yes,” said Sansa, and once she’d left, she turned to Rickon. “You’re in charge now,” she told him. “Tell me what to do, and what to get, and where to go. These wildlings are going to _hurt.”_

…

They fled into the woods, quietly, quickly, and didn’t look behind them.

Sansa held Serena close in her arms, but she wouldn’t stop crying; Sansa didn’t look like anyone she’d ever seen in her life, and the poor girl was panicking. It was only with Rickon and Arya that she calmed, and even then she seemed to see her mother in Arya, preferring her more than anyone else.

That night, they stopped their trek, huddling together and eating the cold food they’d brought with them. Sooner or later, they’d need to set fires, but if they could last a week in the woods, it would make things much safer.

“We need to tell people,” Gendry muttered, yanking at his cloak. The North was far colder than he’d ever been in his life, and he hated it. “Tell your brothers- your parents. The wildlings have control of Winterfell.”

Sansa was tired enough that the world seemed to be spinning. She and Arya hadn’t spent more than a day inside Winterfell’s safety, and they were already back to the woods.

_Damn you. Couldn’t you and your men wait for a few days?_

But if they’d come even the tiniest bit earlier, then who knew what would have happened to Sansa and Arya- not to mention Rickon and Serena? It would’ve been kinder of the wildlings to come a little later, but Sansa would be content with what she had.

“And how should we do that?” Arya asked, curling into herself further.

“We’ve three horses,” Gendry pointed out.

“Only one of which is healthy.”

“Then one of us can ride it to the nearest keep,” he said flatly.

Sansa swallowed. “The nearest keep is Winterfell.”

Arya worried at Needle’s hilt, shoulders curving inwards. “The rookery wouldn’t be one of their targets, not if the wildlings get to the food stores. It’s far enough out of the way, and also unimportant enough. Most likely- the ravens will still be there. If one of us can enter it…”

“You can’t be serious. Walking straight into a castle held by the wildlings- it’s _madness.”_ Sansa stared at Arya and Gendry both, waiting for one of them to cave and admit the ridiculousness of their proposition.

Instead, Gendry settled further against the log he was leaning against.

“Aye,” he said. “It is madness. But sometimes the only way to win against odds like this is to do something mad, isn’t it?”

Sansa exhaled sharply. It was foolish, idiotic, _suicidal._ But then, Sansa had been the one to take a wounded Jon halfway across the Red Keep while it crawled with Lannister forces. Sansa had been the one who threatened the Kingslayer into giving them horses and food. Sansa had been the one to kill the king.

She didn’t really have much room to talk about idiotic ideas.

“So, if we’re going to send a raven, we need to know our letters.” Arya’s eyes measured Sansa. “The only other one here who knows that is Maester Luwin, who’ll die before he ever reaches the edges of the wolfswood if we send him. Which leaves you and me.”

 _One of us has to go to Winterfell,_ thought Sansa. _One of us has to be so forgettable people will never even see us._

And for all that Arya looked more like a Northerner, she hadn’t ever learned to disappear in plain sight. She hadn’t ever had a bastard’s training.

“I go,” said Sansa, softly. “You stay here.”

“I’m better with a sword.”

“Yes, but I’m better at making people look away.” At Arya’s raised eyebrow, Sansa smiled, and it wasn’t altogether bitter. “It’s what every bastard knows: how to turn invisible in a crowd. And that, I think, is more important than wielding a sword. What’re you going to do if a hundred men come after you? You can’t stab them all.”

Slowly, Arya nodded; they both turned to Gendry, who shrugged in agreement, and then Sansa curled closer to Rickon, letting her eyes slip shut.

“Sleep,” she said. “We’ll work out the details in the morning.”

…

It was Robb’s army that finally broke through Harrenhal’s defenses.

They took the castle at dawn, but there was so much confusion and chaos that it took Jon until noon to finally enter. When he finally did, the courtyard went silent; Jon frowned, digging his hand into Ghost’s scruff, and let the direwolf lead him into the castle.

Robb always kept Grey Wind close to him after a battle, and Ghost could smell his brother out easily enough. It was the quickest way to find each other, Jon was certain.

The rooms Ghost led him to, however, was what looked to be a bedchamber- and, more importantly, it was empty. Jon’s frown deepened, but Ghost only muscled his way in further, finally nudging Jon towards the bed.

Jon stumbled at the force, hands bracing himself against the dusty bed. Up close, almost falling onto the bed, he saw the red strands of hair on the pillow, and froze.

“What-” Jon’s eyes widened. It wasn’t just the red hair. There was blood, spotting the cover. A dark smear over the linen, in one place; a few drops, at another. He could just see her dabbing at her mouth with the rough cloth, wincing against the sting, refusing to cry.

“This is Sansa’s hair,” he said, turning to Ghost. “This is Sansa’s blood. You-”

 _He threatened to send me to one of his brothels,_ Sansa had told him all those months ago, staring into a fire with tired, bruised eyes. Jon looked at the room and winced. It was small, more a closet than a room. When he jammed his head out of the window, he felt something inside of him snap.

Sansa had japed about the window she leapt out of. She’d told him of the bushes that broke her fall, and the way Benjen had complimented her on her bravery. She hadn’t, however, talked about the height from which she’d fallen.

“Find Grey Wind,” he said, low and hard, to Ghost.

…

Sansa left for the south that morning, bidding goodbye to a worried Arya and a grim-faced Gendry with as much cheer as she could.

“Be safe,” Arya hissed into her ear, just before she mounted the single healthy horse they had. “Don’t make loads of noise. Keep that dagger in your hand, alright? And don’t die. It doesn’t matter if you make it or not- just _don’t die.”_

“I’ll do my best,” said Sansa, leaning forwards to stamp a kiss to Arya’s cheek. “And you too. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

She turned, then, and left. Sansa didn’t look behind her.

She knew all to well how difficult it would be to see them in the distance.

…

“I,” said Jon, “am going to kill him.”

Robb wasn’t sure what, precisely, had made Jon so angry. But his face was cold and harsh, as if cut from planes of ice, and his eyes were glittering.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “But someone needs to talk to him first. See what he-”

“I will,” Jon interrupted, drawing a knife and jiggling the handle.

Robb hesitated; Lyanna, beside him, had her eyes narrowed on her son, something that was a little too sharp to be called worry in them. Usually, Jon was good at questioning prisoners- he kept a cool head, and his grim, unflappable demeanor shook them deeply. But there was something different now.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” said Jon, and shouldered into the cell containing Petyr Baelish without another look backwards.

…

Sansa left her horse in the wolfswood with Lady, drew her cloak over her head, and walked through Winterfell’s gates.

After almost four days, the wildlings had managed to take control of most of the castle, but they were still wary of the traps that were still to be sprung. As a result, most of them were in the courtyard. The Hunter’s Gate was almost unmanned- as far as Sansa could tell, there was only one man there at all- and Sansa could, with a little quiet sneaking, avoid his attention altogether.

The door to the maester’s turret was locked- the wildlings hadn’t gotten to that part of Winterfell yet, as Arya had predicted. It took Sansa three hacks at the wooden handle to splinter it, and then a breathless moment where she leapt nimbly past the trip-wire placed right past the entrance to enter it. She didn’t pause after that- only swept into Maester Luwin’s rooms, searching for something to write on.

Thankfully, it didn’t take her long; stored in a neat cupboard next to his desk, Luwin had kept a stack of paper and even some spare ink. Sansa grabbed a sheet of paper and made her way further up, careful to avoid the booby-trapped fifth stair; in the rookery, she started searching for a raven that could carry the message.

The ravens to the Twins and Harrenhal had died of the cold, but the one to Riverrun had been placed further from the window. Its food stores hadn’t been too low, either, which was a blessing from all the gods.

_Now to write the message._

Sansa yanked her gloves off and bent over the paper. But even as she did so, Sansa heard a man’s rough bark, loud and easily audible from the large window of the rookery.

 _The guard from Hunter’s Gate._ Sansa cursed, slightly, in her mind, but then turned, eyes flicking over the room quickly.

“Why’s the handle broken?” He asked aloud.

Sansa knew the exact moment he opened the door- the wood creaked, loud enough to hear easily. She also heard him trip over the thin wire, which gave her at least a few moments to take advantage.

 _Wildlings have taken Winterfell,_ she scribbled. _Need help. Come North as quickly as possible._

She sprinkled drying powder on it, rolled it up as quick as possible, and placed it in the raven’s carrier, attached as it was to its leg. The message was unsigned, but Sansa could hear the heavy tramping of boots up the stairs- the heavy tread faltered at the fifth stair, at the trap.

“Fly true,” she whispered to the raven, hands fumbling over the latch. “Fly fast. You are our only hope.”

The raven flew out, and Sansa moved swiftly, balancing the empty cage against the window sill, angled to fall at any movement. She slid up behind the door, her knife ready in her palms.

 _If anyone tries to hurt me, I will not go quietly,_ she reminded herself.

…

“How many troops do the Lannisters have?” Jon growled.

Petyr had started out smiling smugly. It took about a quarter of an hour for that smugness to be replaced with discomfort, and another half-hour for his mask to crack. Jon had already swallowed back the heaviest of the accusations weighting his tongue multiple times, and if he could just get the answer to this last question, he could start on what he truly wanted.

“Fifteen thousand,” said Petyr. “Five in King’s Landing with Cersei Lannister. Another ten in the field with the Kingslayer.”

Jon nodded, once, and then whirled around, driving his dagger less than an inch from the webbing of Petyr’s fingers, flat on the table. Petyr flinched; Jon leaned over him.

“Now,” he said. “You took a girl prisoner, Lord Baelish. Do you remember her? Red hair. She was traveling with me, on the way to Winterfell, and allowed you to take her prisoner so Arya and I could escape.”

Petyr frowned, looking up at Jon. Slowly, his face paled.

“She was with you.”

“You didn’t know that?”

“I knew that she was with a few others.” Petyr chewed his lip, eyes focused on his hand. “I knew that the Lannisters had warrants out for a great number of influential Targaryen loyalists. I didn’t know that the person I was tracking was- you.”

 _Blood,_ Jon reminded himself. _Blood on Sansa’s face. Blood that_ you _caused to spill._

“Why did you take her?” Jon asked, forcing his voice to remain even.

Petyr snorted. “Why should I tell you?”

“Because,” said Jon, teeth gritted, “if you don’t, I won’t just kill you. I’m going to kill you _slowly,_ and by the end of it you’ll be begging me for mercy. Answer me and I’ll give you a quick death.”

“Do you know who Lysa is?” Petyr asked, smiling thinly. “You must know Catelyn Tully.”

_Catelyn Stark. That is her name._

“Catelyn’s sister,” said Jon.

“Yes. And they are _very_ close, the two of them, and Lysa’s always been close with me. A few months ago, dear Lysa got a letter from her sister, confessing to both treason and a secret child- hidden away in the Vale, and, apparently, recently dead.”

Jon stilled.

“Lysa died not soon after,” Petyr told him. “But Ned Stark disappeared, and Catelyn’s always loved her children. Without her husband… surely, she’d look favorably on the one to produce the daughter she’d been so certain was dead.” He shrugged, lightly, easily. “After all, what’s to say that her daughter was, truly, dead?”

“So you took Sansa,” whispered Jon. “Because she looked like Catelyn.”

“The ungrateful girl disappeared a few weeks later.” Petyr would have waved a hand dismissively had his hands be free, Jon thought. “I’ve no idea where she is now, if that’s what you wanted to know.”

_You’ve no idea how true your judgment was._

Jon nodded decisively. He rose to his feet, grabbing the knife from the table as he headed towards the door. Just before he opened the door, he paused.

“She’s my wife,” he said.

Petyr twisted, a furrow between his brows. “What?”

“Sansa,” said Jon. “She’s my wife.”

“You married Alayne Arryn.”

“I married her,” Jon said flatly. “I told everyone I was marrying her, at the least. But Alayne Arryn jumped off the Eyrie before I ever even went there. Sansa Stone was mistaken as her, and she went along with the charade.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Did you know that Rowena Arryn was very good at dyeing people’s hair?”

Petyr looked as if he’d been struck across the face. This singular proof that he’d miscalculated so badly shook him more than everything Jon had done before.

“The girl you kidnapped,” Jon told him, “was Sansa Stark, we found out later. So you were right enough about it- though utterly wrong in the execution.” He turned and met Petyr’s gaze. “Do you know what she told me after fleeing Harrenhal? That you threatened to send her to one of your brothels. I promised her to kill you, then. I swear to you, now: you’ll not see another dawn.”

He stepped out the door before he could see Petyr’s reaction, handing Robb the dagger.

“He dies tonight,” Jon told him, and stalked away.

…

The man entered, throwing the door open against the wall.

Sansa kept herself very still at the loud noise, making sure not to make any noise or movement that could draw his attention. As she watched, loud sound displaced enough air to tip the birdcage over, and the noise of metal falling against stone was loud enough for the man to head towards the window.

As soon as his attention was focused away from the door, Sansa turned and fled down the stairs.

She was out of the Hunter’s Gate before he came down.

It was night by the time she felt the companionable presence of Lady beside her. Sansa sighed, exhaling in relief, and rubbed behind Lady’s ears, laughing tiredly as she licked at her face.

“Come on, girl,” she said, “we should get going.”

If they hurried, they could reach Arya by tomorrow night. Sansa couldn’t wait to return to her: no matter how uncertain their position was, it was at least safer than being all alone in an area occupied by a hostile, savage enemy.

Lady nudged at Sansa’s face, and she sighed; relaxed enough to embrace her.

Arya and the others were wary of Lady’s wildness, and Sansa, too, was wary enough of Lady’s viciousness- particularly after she killed Ramsay Bolton- that she’d avoided the direwolf for a few days. But there was something comforting _in_ Lady’s violence, like the way a weapon was comforting to a person in danger.

“Come on,” she repeated, letting Lady lead her to her horse. “We should get going.”

As they began walking, she heard, almost simultaneously, a twig snap behind her and Lady’s growl.

Sansa went still and turned, hand going to Jon’s knife, gripping it tightly.

“Who’s there?”

There was no answer. Sansa ruffled Lady’s fur, trusting in her instincts far more than Sansa’s own, and let herself focus on the area where Lady’s muzzle was pointing.

“Come out,” she ordered. Louder: “Come _out!”_

Out of the shadows stepped the same man who’d burst into the rookery. Sansa’s jaw clenched.

“What do you want?”  

The man’s red hair and beard looked darker in the moonlight. His eyes were very wide.

“You aren’t a wildling,” he said.

Sansa didn’t bite her lip. She didn’t bare her teeth. She did grip Lady’s fur, ensuring she didn’t attack him.

“No,” she said.

“You’re a Stark,” he whispered. At her startled jerk, he tipped his head to the side. “Everyone’s heard how the Starks have tame direwolves.”

“Well,” said Sansa, breathing deeply, “you’re right on two counts. And wrong on the third.” Her hands curled in Lady’s fur tighter. “I _am_ a Stark, and the Starks do have direwolves, but none of them are tame.”

 _As am I,_ she thought, the cold wind cutting against her cheeks. _How many have thought me tamed? How many times have I proven them wrong?_

Abruptly, the man paled. “You sent a message. That’s what you were doing in the tower. We heard that you kneelers used ravens, but we didn’t believe-” he paused, before forging ahead, voice steadily getting louder. “You told them- what did you tell them? _Who_ did you tell?”

Fear was thick across the back of her tongue, heavy and metallic as blood. Briefly, for just more than a heartbeat, she thought she was staring at the man through Lady’s eyes instead of her own. Sansa stroked Lady’s side, and then, without warning, even as he stepped forward threateningly- she let go.

He didn’t have a moment to scream before Lady leapt at him. Sansa unwound the blanket from the provisions stored on Lady’s back, using her knife to cut it into thick strips. She barely waited for Lady to finish choking him into unconsciousness to lash him to the nearest tree.

“We have to go,” she snapped to Lady, and they raced towards the horse as fast as they could.

…

“St- st-”

Tormund threw his cloak over Torwynd’s shoulders. “Shut up,” he bit out, turning to the ropes and sawing at them.

Torwynd had disappeared from the courtyard earlier that day. It was only at dusk that Munda had told him of his absence, and it took them almost half the night to find the idiotic boy.

“Take him back,” Tormund ordered some of his men, glaring.

Torwynd, however, wrenched away from them. That, of itself, took immense strength, what with his muscles trembling as they were. The dark bruises against his throat shone in the pale moonlight.

 _“Listen,”_ he said, hands clenching when his jaw clicked against his violent shivers. “F-f-father. St- st-”

“You’ll lose your tongue,” Tormund warned. “Keep your mouth shut and go to Winterfell. I’ll find the man who did this and take his head-”

“N-not man. W- woman.” Torwynd glared at nothing, voice rasping against both the cold and the bruises. _“Stark.”_

Tormund stilled. “They’re gone from here. They headed into the wolfswood- we saw them go.”

Torwynd shook his head. Ice crystals sprayed across everyone near him, falling from his shaggy hair. Though his hands trembled, he sketched a shape in the air.

“Direwolf,” one of the men interpreted. He turned towards Tormund, lips pressed thin. “A tame direwolf.”

The clearing fell silent. Tormund swore loudly, and then nodded to his son.

“Go home,” he said again. “We’ll find this Stark woman, as well as her pet direwolf, and we’ll take care of it. You keep yourself warm.”

Torwynd finally allowed himself to be led away. Tormund sighed, and turned to track this new threat’s path into the woods.

…

_Who did you tell?_

Sansa mounted the horse, aiming towards the west, aiming towards Arya’s camp, but she hesitated.

_What did you tell them?_

She’d communicated the events. What Sansa hadn’t told was that she and Arya were safe. What Sansa had forgotten to talk about was that they’d escaped. She hadn’t even signed the damn letter.

The nearest castle to Winterfell was Castle Cerwyn. They’d at least have ravens that she could send- and with a direwolf beside her, she doubted they’d stop her.

_The wildlings will think I headed back to Arya’s group. That should give me some protection._

Sansa wanted to swear under her breath, but the air was too cold to risk it. Instead, she guided her horse a quarter-circle around, and they headed south.

…

Jon took Petyr’s head quietly, in a private ceremony. Lyanna had wanted a public beheading, but after Robb backed Jon, she’d retreated. It was after the beheading that they finally received their first contingent of Vale soldiers.

Robb wasn’t certain of how exactly Lyanna had ensured they didn’t cut and run immediately. The rumors of Sansa’s true parentage and her marriage to Jon was more confusing and contradictory than anything; and yet, damning, in its own way, to those who heard it and found such treatment of their liege-lady insulting. Likely the deciding factor was that they were all headed for the Crownlands anyhow, to treat with the Martells and deal with the Lannisters, once and for all.

In the end, they met Rhaenys Targaryen and Elia Martell in Hayford Castle.

It wasn’t a happy meeting, but then Robb hadn’t really expected it to be.

…

Slung low over Lady’s back, eyes drooping, Sansa held on with the last of her strength.

The wildlings hadn’t taken too long to catch up to her. When she’d thought they might be fooled by her traveling towards Arya, she hadn’t taken into consideration that most of them spent years tracking their prey to hunt them.

And Sansa was ridiculously easy prey.

They came with a large force- almost twenty men- and Sansa avoided them easily enough, at first, but they managed to herd her away from Castle Cerwyn efficiently; apparently they’d raided Winterfell’s map-room, and they’d realized that if she was going south, she was most likely going to Castle Cerwyn.

Two days later, they got close enough to shower her with arrows. Her horse died quickly, struck by three arrows, but even worse, Sansa took a bad wound to her chest. She’d made it even worse that night, when she tried to remove the barbed arrowhead. Her only saving grace had been Lady, who nudged at her until Sansa climbed onto her back and then took off like a wooden crossbolt.

_There’s no way I actually reach Jon._

It was true enough. With all the blood loss, she’d be lucky to make it another day; and that was without taking into consideration the fatigue from lack of sleep and food. Hells- she hadn’t had a proper drink of water in hours. Sansa’d been too busy racing away from the wildlings.

Maybe it’d been a mistake to tie the wildling man to the tree; but Sansa hadn’t had a choice, not unless she wanted to kill him. And that was a line she wasn’t willing to cross.

Finally, even Lady slowed. Sansa slid off her back, curling against a tree trunk, too tired to even wince against the pain in her chest. When she opened her eyes, she realized that she was in a forest- no, a swamp. The air was thick, humid, rank with the smell of mud. Lady was nowhere to be found.

 _I did the best I could,_ she thought drowsily. _Ned and Catelyn will know soon enough. Arya and Gendry and Rickon will survive. Jon and Robb will be fine. I,_ she thought, repeated to herself, prayed for it to be true- _did the best I could._

Before the darkness took everything, however, she felt something jostle her. Sansa cried out, the pain sharp and overwhelming, washing her in red. But the person didn’t drop her. Neither did they hurt her, and slowly the sharp pain faded into something more manageable. Her strength ebbed again- and then, Sansa let the blackness swallow her.

…

When she came to, it was more surprising than anything.

Her chest was bandaged neatly under a heavy wool shirt, and Sansa felt better than she’d ever expected to feel again- unsurprising, perhaps, because she’d been certain she would die, hunted by the wildlings like a common deer, but a relief nonetheless.

Lady was lolling on the rug in front of her bed, before the fire. Her eyes were focused on Sansa, large eyes tracking her every movement.

“I’m-” Sansa coughed on the syllable, sinking back into the pillows at her back.

Lady didn’t looked impressed.

Sansa tried out deeper breaths, letting her chest accept that muscle movement before attempting to speak again. When that, too, dissolved into coughing, Lady had enough. She scratched at the wooden door until a pretty, green-eyed woman entered.

“You’re awake,” she said, sounding pleasantly surprised. When Sansa went to speak, she held up a hand. “You’ve just taken quite the shock to your system, particularly your ribs. Don’t bother speaking for a few more minutes; let me just make sure that your bandages don’t have to be changed.”

She flinched under the woman’s cold hands, but the frank examination was over quickly and she even handed Sansa a cup of water once she’d finished.

“Thank you,” said Sansa, softly. Her hands smoothed the covers over her legs, jittery. “What’s your name? Where am I?”

“You’re in the Neck,” the woman told her, unsmiling. “My name is Jyana Reed. You’re in Greywater Watch.” Her lips pursed. “And though- I might add- your wild race right to our doorstep was a foolish venture, it did have the effect of warning half the North of the wildling danger.”

“They’ve been contained?”

Jyana’s shook her head. “To raise an army, we need a leader. The only leader the North has accepted in recent history has been a Stark, and the only Stark we knew of in the North was on the verge of death for a good week.” She unfolded a linen cloth with a sharp snap of her wrist, eyes hard on Sansa.

Sansa- she remembered the cold air in Winterfell’s rookery, the ache in her bones as she tried to evade hunters who spent half their lives training to track and hunt- and she levelled a look at Jyana Reed that was as dignified as she could manage after nearly dying.

“Arya is in the wolfswood with the majority of Winterfell’s population,” she announced, voice pitched sharply. “We evacuated as soon as we could. In the end, we had to tell people what was going on- so we took a calculated risk.”

“A calculated risk.” Jyana snorted. “You entered an occupied Winterfell to take a _calculated risk?_ That’s being blind to the danger, girl. That’s called being foolhardy.”

Sansa heaved a sigh. “Maybe.”

“But then-” Jyana said, looking minutely softer, “-you Starks have always been known for your foolishness.”

“Maybe,” repeated Sansa, lips quirking upwards.

Jyana smiled, small and wry, and nodded. “I’ll send Howland in, then. Best you finish talking to him as soon as possible.”

She left, and a short, slim man entered not a few minutes later. With Lady curled on the bed beside her, watching Howland Reed carefully but not particularly suspiciously, Sansa let herself relax a little.

“Lord Reed,” she said, nodding respectfully.

He bowed his head as well. “Princess Stark.” Sansa frowned, surprised, and he smiled. “We have gotten news in the Neck- particularly, an invitation to the marriage of Alayne Arryn to Jon Targaryen. Your brother- Robb- couldn’t keep himself from regaling us with the story of your wedding when he came here.”

“I wasn’t aware you’d met with him,” said Sansa carefully.

“Indeed, there seems to be much we are all not aware of,” Howland replied. He looked kinder than Jyana, then, his face creased both with sympathy and remembered pain, though Sansa felt warier of him. “Ask me your questions, Princess, and I shall strive to answer.”

Slowly, Sansa nodded. “How long was I asleep?”

“Almost a week.” He grimaced. “A little more than a week.”

Her heart dropped. Sansa had to send clearer information to her parents and Jon, and the longer she waited, the longer they would worry. _I’m in a castle now,_ she thought. _If I can send ravens from here…_

If Sansa could send ravens from here, she could communicate to everyone what was going on.

“Can you send ravens to Riverrun?” She asked.

“Yes,” said Howland, drawing out the syllable. “I believe we should have such a raven. Have you something of importance to say?”

“Much,” said Sansa.

Howland nodded and sketched a small bow. “Then I shall bring paper,” he told her. “You cannot move from this bed for another day, at the least, but Jyana hasn’t said anything against writing. And after that we can speak on restoring you and your sister to Winterfell.”

Sansa nodded, and as Howland left the room, she relaxed for the first time in weeks.

…

“Brother,” Rhaenys greeted.

Jon felt Robb, beside him, relax at the civility with which Rhaenys was starting out. Jon knew better; Rhaenys tended to start out courteously enough, but she had few compunctions about honing her tongue on those she disliked.

And she’d always disliked Jon.

“Sister,” Jon replied, then turned to her mother, who still stood at the entrance. “Queen Elia.”

Elia Martell had spent the first few years of her marriage quietly, ignored by her husband and hated by Aerys, a dark shadow. When he’d run off with Lyanna, however, she’d not been half so quiet. She’d spent almost two years in Dorne, refusing to see Rhaegar, and she’d taken both Aegon and Rhaenys with her. After Rhaegar insisted on bringing Jon and Lyanna back to King’s Landing, she’d left for Dorne every time Lyanna went south of the Neck.

She wasn’t a cruel woman, perhaps, but neither had she been kind to Jon.

“Jon,” she said, now, curtly, before entering the tent.

“How are you?”

“Fine,” said Rhaenys. “And you?”

Jon nodded, inhaling shakily, before gesturing to the table. “Let’s sit.”

“I hear you married,” Rhaenys said as she seated herself.

“And so did you,” replied Jon. “How is Willas?”

“Kind enough. We’ve time yet to learn each other, I suppose.” She shrugged. “And you? I’ve heard a lot of rumors about your pretty little wife.”

Robb stiffened. “What rumors?”

“Impossible ones,” said Rhaenys, baring her teeth in something that approximated a smile.

“If you want answers, speak plainly,” Jon told her.

“That she isn’t actually Alayne Arryn,” Elia said plainly. “That she is a Stark, hidden away for years. That you married her knowing this. That Rhaegar didn’t know the truth, even on his deathbed.”

“Father knew,” Jon said quietly. It was as good as a confession.

“Did he?” Elia’s face went colder. “And still, he was content with your marriage.” Jon flinched, just a little: he knew very well how much Elia had fought against Rhaenys’ marriage to Aegon, and Rhaegar hadn’t budged even a little on that. For Jon to have married as he had, without the taint of Targaryen incest- it must grate on Elia’s nerves. “Give me one reason to pardon her lies. You tell me how that can be forgiven.”

“She saved your life,” said Robb. “Isn’t that enough?”

Elia lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve never seen the girl in my life. How could she have-”

“Sansa sent ravens to Winterfell and Dragonstone and Sunspear,” Robb told her, voice even, controlled. “She sent ravens when she didn’t know anything about any of us, when she didn’t even know the truth of who she _was,_ when all she knew was that the Lannisters were cruel. You tell me, Queen Elia: will you reward your life with her death?”

There was a long silence. Finally, Elia tipped her head up. “No matter what she’s done for us personally,” she commented, “the Vale won’t forgive her lies. She certainly won’t be accepted in the south.”

“Why would she need to be accepted in the south?” Robb asked.

Rhaenys jerked, just a little, at that. Jon’s eyes narrowed.

“I have no desire for the Iron Throne,” he said flatly. “If that’s what you were referring to.”

Rhaenys straightened in her seat further, impossibly, and Elia’s mouth snapped shut. She didn’t react for a long minute, and then Rhaenys leaned forwards, eyes pinning him in place.

“You know what the First Great Council declared.”

Elia’s jaw tightened further. “You are _Dornish,”_ she told her daughter, eyes hot enough to light Jon on fire. He reflected, very, very, quietly, that he was glad that his mother wasn’t at the meeting; there was already enough tension there, enough to cut with a knife. Putting Lyanna Stark and Elia Martell in the same room was never a good thing, even in the best of times.

“I am,” Rhaenys replied, placing her hand over Elia’s. “But the rest of Westeros does not follow Dornish inheritance. And the First Great Council stated that Jon’s claim comes before mine to the Iron Throne, which means that we must speak on that.” She looked back at him. “I would make a much better queen than you would a king.”

Jon tipped his head in acknowledgement. “You would,” he said. “I know what the council said, and I don’t care. I don’t want that steel-backed monstrosity, and I won’t want it for a hundred years. I’ve seen what happened to our father- I’ve seen what happens to kings. The Iron Throne is _yours,_ if you want it; if you don’t, we’ll find someone else. But I’m not Father’s heir.”

Slowly, she nodded. But where she appeared content with Jon’s declaration, Elia didn’t.

“When Rhaenys is crowned, you won’t be welcome south of the Neck,” she told him. “We will not tolerate you in our court.”

Robb inhaled sharply, shoulders going tense. It was unnecessarily harsh, a humiliation forced on Jon that he likely didn’t deserve. But Jon only spread his hands flat on the table and stared at Elia.

“Fine,” he said. “On one condition.”

“What?” Rhaenys asked.

“You deal with the Vale knights,” Jon told her, though his eyes didn’t shift from Elia’s. “You tell them the truth of my marriage, and you keep them from retribution. You handle their anger. And I will leave for the North as soon as humanly possible.”

Robb laid a hand on his arm, as if startled, but Jon ignored him in favor of watching Elia.

Finally, as if unwilling, Elia nodded. “Yes,” she said. He thought there was compassion in her dark eyes. “We have a deal.”

Jon nodded, swallowing through a dry throat. “We shall leave soon, then,” he told her.

They left the tent, after that, Rhaenys and Elia returning to their green and black ensemble, a mix of the Tyrell and Targaryen colors. Jon sagged, a little, as soon as they left his sight.

“Interesting people,” Robb commented lowly.

Jon rolled his eyes. “You’ve no idea.”

…

That night, Jon stumbled across Rhaenys.

Or, not _exactly-_ he’d been walking along the periphery of camp, trying not to get over-excited about heading back home, when he heard a rustle too loud to be the wind. It turned out to be Rhaenys, reclining against the grass.

He debated revealing himself or not, but in the end she took the choice from him.

“Who’s there?” Jon stepped out of the shadows, and Rhaenys stiffened instantly. “Jon. Was there something you wanted?”

Jon measured her, then sighed. “Might we call a- truce? Of sorts? This will be the last night we see each other. And I’m tired of hating you for reasons I still don’t understand.”

She looked sour, for just a moment, before waving him over. Jon knew well why: Rhaenys had been the one to begin the quiet war of attrition between the two of them. Jon had always tended to retaliate more than start anything.

“You know,” said Rhaenys, when Jon didn’t break the silence, “you were always very easy to hate.” She rolled onto her stomach, looking up at him, earnest, big-eyed.

“Was I?” Jon asked dryly.

Rhaenys nodded. “I’m not proud of it. It wasn’t my kindest moment- I’ll accept that. But whenever you were around Mother used to cry, and Father refused to look at Aegon.” She rolled back, head flat against the grass, staring up at the stars. “That, I couldn’t forgive. He never looked at me- I’m not sure if it was that I was Dornish or that I wasn’t Targaryen- but I was used to that. But when you came to King’s Landing, he stopped looking at Aegon too.”

“And that was my fault.”

“No, but you have to admit that it’s easier to hate a twelve-year old brooding idiot than your own father. The father who was also king.” She snorted, undignified. “We’re all a bit messed up, aren’t we?” Rhaenys wasn’t a tall woman- she’d inherited her mother’s height- but she was graceful. Even lounging in the grass, she looked elegant. “Sometimes, I wonder if this was the gods’ punishment for the Targaryens. They gave us dragonbones and dragonfire, beauty to rival a star, a crown heavy with gold.” Her lips thinned. “And enough grief to drown all of Westeros three times over.”

“Other families grieve,” Jon said quietly. “Other families have lost- numerous things. And you’ll be happy, Rhaenys. I’ve only ever heard kind things spoken of Willas Tyrell, and you said it yourself: you’ve time to learn to love each other.”

She didn’t look like she was paying attention to him.

“Father always tried with you,” she said suddenly, and for the first time, Jon heard something truly crack in her voice, like the tipping stone of an avalanche. “He didn’t bother with us. We were to marry each other, Aegon and I, and we were supposed to be Aegon the Conqueror reborn, Rhaenys reborn, without any pesky Visenya for Aegon to love more. But you- oh, he _tried._ He asked you to come, time and time again. He demanded it. He ordered it.”

“I was just a pawn-”

“Weren’t we all?” Rhaenys turned to look at him. “But Rhaegar always treated some pawns as more important than others. And he always treated you more importantly than anyone else.”

Jon swallowed. “Rhaenys-”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have hated you, but I _did,_ and I do.” Rhaenys bit her lip, and then rose to her feet. The moonlight caught in her dark hair- she was, truly, a beautiful woman. She was intelligent, lovely, strong. She would be the best queen Westeros had ever seen. “Which is why we’ll never see each other again.”

“No,” said Jon. Then, unable to stop himself: “This isn’t a happy ending.”

“No,” replied Rhaenys. She smiled, small, delicate, and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was the only time she’d touched him that Jon could remember. “But after all that our father has done to this realm- after all we have lost, after all this death- this might be the closest either of us shall ever know of happiness.” She looked at Jon, then, actually _looked,_ as she hadn’t done ever before. “I hope you have a good life,” she whispered. “Have a long, happy one in the North, with your Stark wife and all your brothers and sisters.”

“And you,” said Jon, placing his hand over hers. “With your Tyrell husband.”

Rhaenys nodded, and let her hand fall off. “Goodbye,” she told him, and walked away.

It was final, Jon knew. But it was also a kinder farewell than he’d ever expected from her.

He let himself lean back, flat against the ground, and stared up at the stars until his eyes slipped shut. When he dreamed, that night, he dreamt of a red-haired woman and a snow-filled castle, with the joyous screams of children echoing around them.

…

The letter that the maester handed to Catelyn was a short one, stuffed hastily and half-crumpled. Catelyn unrolled it and felt the world drop away from under her feet.

Three sentences, perhaps; but harsh ones, nonetheless. And with Ned out in the Westerlands, ensuring the last of the rebellion was kept quiet, they couldn’t even leave all that quickly. Not with the army so far south.

_Jon and Robb._

They yet might have a chance. It took little over a fortnight for the raven to deliver the message from Winterfell to Riverrun- if she sent a raven to Hayford, they’d likely be able to move quickly.

 _I pray this isn’t too late,_ thought Catelyn. Three of her children were up in the North; at least Bran was there, beside her. And Robb would be safe enough, with Lyanna. _Stay safe,_ Catelyn wished, hard, and swallowed the tears that threatened to rise.

“Give me paper,” she told the maester.

Catelyn would be as cold and frozen as any Stark, here, now, in this castle of her childhood.

…

Meera heard something slam against the wooden door. A moment later, Sansa Stark stepped out, lips pursed in displeasure. The look faded into one of startled surprise when she saw Meera standing in the hallway.

“Apologies,” she said. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper so.”

“I’m certain you had a reason,” Meera replied cheerfully.

“I… yes.” Sansa sighed, heading outside the dugout hallways.

She didn’t look worse than she’d looked on the day they brought her bloodied body into Greywater Watch, but she didn’t look much better. Meera stifled her own sigh and followed her, letting her head rock back with the steady breeze outside.

“You’ve received many ravens back,” she pointed out, quietly.

Sansa jaw clenched. “I have,” she said. “It’s been two weeks since I sent the ravens to the other Northern houses, and most have responded. But none of them made any promises. Until today, I didn’t know why, and then Lord Manderly sent me his answer.” She held out a paper to Meera.

Meera took it, unfolding the thin sheet, and began reading.

_Lady Sansa:_

_We of House Manderly were deeply grieved to hear that you and Lady Arya faced an insurrection by the wildlings from beyond the Wall. And yet, as much as we would wish to proclaim ignorance, we cannot: all of the North has received the pleas from the Night’s Watch, begging for more men, warning against the increased frequency of the wildling raids. None of us have been able to answer them properly, not with your brother’s insistence on taking the majority of our fighting men south to fight in Lannister-Targaryen petty squabbles. Clearly, we cannot offer thousands of men to bolster either your cause or that of the Night’s Watch._

_There are some that named you a princess, but there has been neither confirmation nor official statement made by House Stark. Indeed, your entire history of why you were not raised with your family is one that we’ve not heard. Hopefully you can understand our position._

_Perhaps, in the future, House Stark will heed the warnings of its bannermen. Unfortunate accidents such as these are the result of rash action, as I’m certain you would agree._

_Much regrets,_

_Wyman Manderly_

“If he just came out and said that he was unwilling to follow a girl it’d be far easier,” Sansa said bitterly, looking furious. _“Unfortunate accidents are the result of rash action._ He has no compunctions of offering his heir to Robb along with a thousand landed knights. He doesn’t hesitate to bolster White Harbor’s defences when news of the wildlings reaches him. Had Rickon been where I am, he’d have fallen over himself to help!”

“That’s a serious accusation,” Meera told her mildly.

“It’s an _honest_ accusation.” Sansa gestured to the paper. “Wouldn’t you agree with it? Knowing that fifteen other major houses have either refused to supply men and even steel or simply ignored me- what else could it be?”

Meera shrugged. “The Manderlys have always been loyal, Princess. They won’t be too happy about being called anything less.”

“Damn their happiness,” said Sansa, eyes glittering, shining brilliant as a star. “And you know what? I’ll even be a true Stark while I tell them that.”

There was a slow creeping sensation down Meera’s spine that another person might have identified as dread. Meera bit back those thoughts in favor of watching Sansa carefully.

“I’m going to White Harbor to tell it to them _directly,”_ Sansa announced, and the creeping dread bloomed into _outright_ dread.

…

“Lord Wyman,” said Sansa coldly.

“Lady Sansa.” He bowed.

“Princess,” Sansa corrected, smiling thinly. She was angry, incandescently so, and she wondered if her anger could make her skin steam in the chill air. _I am a Stark. You will not forget that._ “I understand that you aren’t certain of my parentage- it is a long story, indeed, and one that Lord and Lady Stark kept very quiet until recently.” Her smile widened. “But rest assured that my marriage to Prince Jon is entirely true, and it is from that I gain my title. If you wish to address me, it will be as a princess.”

Wyman was a fat man, with kind eyes and an amiable face. Sansa could see the moment he recognized her as Catelyn Stark’s daughter: the blank mask he wore was replaced with a look of startled surprise, and then the wry look of a man who knew himself to be outplayed.

“Princess Sansa, then,” said Wyman, “it is an honor to see you in White Harbor.”

“It is an honor to be here,” Sansa replied, forcing herself to gentle the arch tone she’d practiced on the way up from Greywater Watch- sharp enough to gain and hold people’s attention, not sharp enough to insult. “I have heard much of your city, my lord.”

“Good things, I hope.”

She stroked Lady’s fur, light enough to feel the dampness of the snow along the fingers of her glove.

“Oh, yes,” said Sansa, eyes flicking to meet his. “Particularly of the number of knights who call this city home.”

Wyman’s face tightened, minutely, and Sansa smiled inwardly.

…

 _“Jon,”_ Lyanna breathed, bursting into their tent.

Robb stilled, worried, and Jon looked back at her.

Lyanna hadn’t been walking around much in the camp- though Rhaenys had left the morning after their meeting, Elia hadn’t. And Elia’s relationship with Lyanna would never be anything less than antagonistic; to keep things a little less tense, Lyanna had confined herself to her tents, voluntarily.

But now she looked panicked.

“Read,” she snapped, handing one letter to Jon, another to Robb. “Ravens from Catelyn- one sent from Sansa to Catelyn, and another from Catelyn to us.”

Robb’s hands trembled by the time he finished reading the letter- when he looked up, he saw that Jon had gone as white as a sheet.

“We’re leaving on the morrow,” Jon rasped, and nobody was willing to refuse him.

…

Hours later, after a meal, after a bath, Sansa met Lord Manderly.

“I understand that you are wary,” she began. “Any sane man would be wary of sending out more men, when so many have already headed south. But I might remind you that House Manderly is pledged to House Stark.” Her eyes cut sideways, measuring the other people in the room. “That you are sworn to answer when called upon.”

“And I’ve answered that.”

“Have you?”

Wyman paused, brows pulling together. There were other lords there, arrayed behind him, seated or standing around the war table. Sansa had positioned herself so that she was directly opposite Wyman; it made it easier to glare at the man.

“I have offered over a thousand men to your brother,” said Wyman. “House Manderly has always answered Stark banners, and we always will.”

“And yet,” Sansa murmured, “you refuse to answer mine.”

He exhaled sharply. “My lady- _Princess-_ you have not lived in the North before.” Wyman smiled, patronizing, paternal, _infuriating._ “We cannot answer the call of a girl simply because she calls herself a Stark- a girl who knows nothing of the North or its customs. If you wait for just a few more months, I’m certain your brother and husband will return. You can take back Winterfell then.”

When they’d come to White Harbor, Meera had told her not to insult Wyman Manderly. He was a jovial man, perhaps, but a prideful one as well. Insulting him would only increase tensions, and not solve anything.

Sansa reached for the clasp of her cloak and undid it, eyes resolute on Wyman’s. She let it drop, and then took Jon’s knife from her sleeve, digging it into the seam where the sleeves were attached. Confusion crossed Wyman’s eyes, first, and then horror when she pulled the sleeve off.

One barbed arrow had struck Sansa’s chest. That wound still ached when she moved too fast. But another arrow had skimmed Sansa’s arm, and with her chest so painful, Sansa hadn’t noticed it- not until she bathed herself in Greywater Watch and realized there was a long, pale scar along her upper arm.

It looked more impressive than it actually was. Sansa threw her shoulders back, proudly, and let the entire hall see the scar.

“I almost died,” she told him. “Another arrow struck my chest, and the blood loss nearly killed me. I recovered because of Lord Reed’s kindness and luck, nothing else, and you want me to _wait_ for a war that might last years to end?” She flicked her hair behind her, a swath of red cutting through the hall’s dull walls, faded flagstones. “I am a Stark. I may not have been raised here, Lord Wyman, but I have it in my blood. I know very well what you answer when southroners ask: _the North is loyal. The North is honorable. The North remembers.”_

Nobody moved, save for Sansa, who pressed her hands flat against the table, leaning forward so the quiver of her shoulders was hidden.

“I almost died,” she repeated. “We should have had warning from House Umber, or notice from any other keep, of the wildling attack, but we didn’t. And now my sister is in the wolfswood with a hundred other refugees, without any food or help- and you want me to sit here, and wait.” Sansa bowed her head, fingers scraping against the wood of the table. Low, almost too quiet to hear, she said, “It seems to me that you’ve forgotten your oaths.”

There was a long silence in the hall. Sansa didn’t look up, head still bowed. She’d been angry for almost a full week now, and that had buoyed her here, to White Harbor- but now, listing out all she and Arya had to surmount, it felt impossible.

Warm hands wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, and Sansa looked up, startled. Wyman attached the clasp of the cloak, then stepped away. For the first time, he looked sad; the laughter had faded.

“I cannot offer you even half what I sent with Lord Robb,” he said quietly.

Sansa didn’t smile, or so much as twitch, but relief blossomed in her chest.

“How many?”

“Four hundred,” Wyman told her. “That’s the most I can give.”

She nodded, breathing in through her teeth, and turned to the other lords. Her arm flexed, the dull twinge of pain keeping her attention. Sansa met one of the lord’s eyes: he wore a black, woolen cloak, a white sunburst prominent on his back.

“And you, Lord Karstark?” She asked. “How many can you field?”

…

Arya sagged, a little, when Gendry returned with three other men, empty-handed.

Their food supplies were dwindling, and the longer they spent outside, the worse their condition got. Already, four people had fallen ill; Arya was worried about Serena, who was young enough to be affected by the cold and lack of food.

Rickon turned, placing his hand over her wrist when he, too, saw Gendry.

“We’ll get through it,” he muttered.

Arya tacked her lips up. “We will,” she told him, more confidently than she felt. “Now, go on. I’ll handle Serena until afternoon. You’ve earned the break.”

He grinned, boyish and light, running off to play with the few other boys around. Arya sighed and cradled Serena closer to her chest as Gendry approached her.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Gendry confirmed, his hands light against her shoulder before dropping away. “We even left the woods, to see if we could get more that way. Without proper weaponry… we won’t catch anything.”

_I wish Sansa were here._

Her eyes burned furiously, but Arya refused to let the tears fall. Crying never helped anyone. Here, in a camp where everyone looked up to her to lead them- she couldn’t afford to let anyone see how afraid she was.

“Hey.” Gendry leaned over her, tipping her chin up gently. He was always so careful about touching her- always aware of her status and his own- but after all that had happened in the last few weeks, those lines seemed less important than ever. Hopefully Gendry saw it the same way. “Are you alright?”

“I’m just- worried.” She breathed deep, letting that pain fade a little. “About everything. Us, and the war in the south, _Sansa-”_ Her voice cracked.

Sansa, who left the morning after they fled Winterfell, who was supposed to be back in less than five days. When ten days had passed with no sign of her, Arya had commanded them to head south, because staying that close to Winterfell was dangerous. Nobody knew if she was dead or alive or held prisoner. It made something dark and ugly unfurl in Arya’s chest.

“I’m just worried,” Arya finished, with a tight smile.

Gendry nodded slowly. “You’ll be fine,” he told her. “We _will_ be fine, Arya. I’m sure of-”

Even as he spoke, Rickon tumbled into the clearing, eyes large and wide, narrowing on Arya.

“Arya!” He cried. “Riders!”

For just a moment, Arya held still; then she turned to Gendry, who was already heading to their small stack of weaponry. She soothed Serena, running her hand over her plump cheeks and curls, before handing her over to Rickon and unsheathing Needle.

“You saw them?” She asked.

Rickon nodded. “They rode big horses- heavy ones. All wearing red and silver.”

 _That doesn’t sound like wildlings._ Arya frowned, turning towards the direction from which Rickon had come. _I know this. A noble house- red and silver- I_ know _this-_

Three mounted riders burst into the clearing, each wearing silver and scarlet. As they paused, Arya saw the mailed fist emblazoned on their chests, and she exhaled shakily.

“House Glover!” She greeted, stepping forwards. The rest of the people calmed down, lowering their weapons at Arya’s words, and the riders also dismounted. “This is a relief indeed.”

One of the men- tall, with dark eyes and silvering hair- nodded to her.

“We are envoys sent by Lord Galbart Glover,” he announced. “I presume you are Lady Arya Stark?”

Arya nodded.

“Then I am here to tell you that our lord has extended supplies to you and your people, as well as an armed guard of a hundred riders to escort you to Torrhen’s Square.”

“I don’t understand,” Arya replied. “The food is much needed, ser, but what is this of travel to Torrhen’s Square?”

The man smiled, quickly, like a winter wind. “Have you not heard, my lady? Princess Sansa is forming an army to take back your home. Already the Manderlys and Karstarks have pledged knights to her cause- we are to meet her in Torrhen’s Square for the final march on Winterfell.”

“Sansa,” whispered Arya. She heard Rickon echo it behind her, and others as well. For the first time in almost a month, Arya felt something other than despair. “She’s alive?”

“Alive,” snorted one of the other men. “She’s bullied Lord Glover into offering another hundred riders to her army. I’d say she’s more than just _alive,_ my lady.”

Rickon grinned, beside her, and Gendry’s face split into a large smile. Arya forced the tears back, not letting her jaw shake; she nodded, instead, to the men.

“That sounds like her,” she told him.

…

“What do you think my father would say to you?”

Sansa dug her nails into her palm. The Manderlys and Karstarks had been bad enough, and the Umbers had been even worse; but the Tallharts were the worst of all of them.

They’d first wanted Sansa to come to Torrhen’s Square- she’d given into that request easily enough, because it was close to the southern edge of the wolfswood and so joining with Arya and Gendry would’ve been easy enough. But maybe that initial acquiescence was a bad thing. Now, Leobald Tallhart just wanted to talk for long, precious hours on everything and nothing; he ignored Sansa’s queries on men, and on multiple occasions he’d simply asked her to speak to Eddara.

Eddara was- lovely. Kind, honest, quiet; Sansa thought they might have made good friends, had Eddara not been a pawn in her father’s game to frustrate Sansa’s attempts to gather men.

It was at one of those meetings with Eddara that she suddenly rose to her feet and shut the door.

“I wish I’d had the bravery to do what you’re doing,” she said softly. “Taking back a home that’s yours by right- I’d not have the strength.” She swallowed. “Uncle Leobald won’t give you men if you’re quiet. Not after Father died in the south. But if you talk to him in front of everyone- and if you talk about Lord Eddard- your father- he’ll give in.”

Sansa’s head tilted, a little. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want anyone to say that House Tallhart wasn’t as brave as any other in the retaking of Winterfell,” replied Eddara, with the ghost of a smile on her face, before walking away.

Which led Sansa here, standing in front of a full court in Torrhen’s Square, her head tilted back, her arms spread.

“What do you think my father would say to you?” She repeated. “If he could see you and your men, what would he think? Lord Eddard Stark was always honorable, was always dutiful. He has always done his duty to all his vassals. Now-” Sansa stepped forwards. She wondered if she looked half so striking as she’d looked in the mirror that morning. “-it is time that you repay him.”

…

Arya landed in Torrhen’s Square, the snow crunching under her feet.

She had Serena slung across her chest, Needle belted securely to her waist, Rickon and Gendry at her back. The rest of her people looked stiff from the long walk, but more relieved than anything else.

“Arya,” she heard a voice say.

Arya turned, hand fluttering to her chest, as she saw Sansa standing not ten feet from her. Tears sprang immediately to her eyes, and she choked on them. Sansa reached forwards, brushing a hand over her cheek, and embraced her lightly, careful not to jostle Serena. Then she turned and let Rickon hug her, fierce enough to rock her back- when she broke away, there was a lightness in her eyes that hadn’t been there just moment previous.

“Come inside,” she murmured, guiding them towards the doors. “We can talk more after you’ve had a bath and a hot dinner, I’m sure.”

…

The next day, Arya followed Sansa to the war room.

There were numerous other men there- petty lords, minor nobility- and a few of the more important lords; some Manderly, another Glover, a few Umbers- and, most irritatingly, Benfred Tallhart.

Things went well initially. Sansa didn’t talk much, choosing instead to listen as Wendel Manderly insisted on an arrow-head formation against the East Gate.

“If we break them against the initial tip of the arrow,” he was saying, “we can push them back. We’ve the numbers, after all.”

The others looked willing to agree with it. But they didn’t know Winterfell, not as Arya did. They hadn’t been raised inside its walls. And if they followed Wendel Manderly, they would all _die._

“It won’t work,” she said, stepping forwards, so that they could all see her easily. “The East Gate’s going to be well-fortified. It leads to the Kingsroad, anyone with a head on their shoulders would keep watch for that. No- we should look at the South Gate.”

For a long moment, no one answered.

And then, Benfred Tallhart asked, derisively, “What does a girl know of military strategy?”

“More than _you,”_ Arya snapped, hand going to Needle’s hilt.

Wendel waved Benfred back, looking at Arya with the kind of curiosity a talking cat might be given; surprise, and something else, something smug and condescending all at once. Arya forced back the instinctive urge to bristle.

“Why do you say that, my lady?”

“Because there’s a tunnel inside the South Gate.” Arya bit the inside of her cheek, shearing the emotion from her voice ruthlessly. “It’s well-hidden, and it wraps around the entire castle- if you’re careful, you can come out at the North Gate without anyone knowing.”

The Glover man drew up, looking excited. “Then we mount three attacks,” he said. “First on the East Gate- as a feint- and second on the South Gate. We push the wildlings back until we can get one of our own into this tunnel, and then we keep up the fighting until they open the North Gate from the inside.”

“The only question is who we send into the tunnel,” said Wendel. “If it’s as secret as Lady Arya says, then who would know of its existence?”

“Rickon,” Arya replied, before biting her lip. “Myself. None other here.”

“Then what _use_ is talking about it?” Benfred demanded. “Lord Rickon’s too young. You are-”

“Perfectly capable.”

“A woman.”

“I don’t see your point,” Arya replied, baring her teeth.

Before she could say more, she felt a hand on her shoulder: Sansa, stepping out of the shadows, her lips thin with displeasure.

“We must act quickly,” she said calmly. “Winter is coming, my lords, and Winterfell is necessary to maintain control of the North. We have as of yet received no news from the south of how my husband’s war is going- we do not know if it goes well or not. We must retake Winterfell as soon as possible, and the quickest, least dangerous way is my sister’s plan. Unless someone offers a better alternative, this is the one we shall go with.”

Sansa’s eyes swept over them all- and, before Arya’s very eyes, the same men who’d resisted the very thought of accepting Arya’s thoughts surrendered to Sansa. Arya could even understand why, to a certain extent; Sansa, after her escape of the wildlings, had gotten colder, harder and pointed as any sword. It was magnificent to watch.

It still rankled.

“Tell me,” Sansa addressed her, suddenly. “Do you believe yourself capable of this? It is a long distance, Arya, and a dangerous one.”

Arya inhaled, slowly, studying her hands. _They took my home from me. I can’t sit back and let others fight my battles for me. And this will likely be the only battle I’ll ever see._

“I’ll keep Nymeria close,” she told Sansa, but Sansa only shook her head.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes,” said Arya, hands tightening on the wooden edge of the table. “Yes, that’s my answer. I can do this.”

Sansa’s face lightened, fractionally. “Then,” she murmured, turning to address the entire room, “this is what we shall do.”

“Well,” muttered Benfred, so grating that Arya almost- _almost-_ went to punch him despite Sansa’s calming hand, “even if that plan fails, we can just throw men at the gates until they break. I suppose we've enough men for that.”

…

Their army met up with a small party of riders, just past the Twins: Catelyn and Bran, who’d ridden ahead of Ned’s army, leaving Benjen with him.

There was fear in both their eyes, but less than what Jon had expected- then, he heard that Sansa had sent out more ravens, after all of it, that explained things a little clearer; but that was almost a month previous, and there was no more news after that.

The army was already going the fastest it could, and they still had a fortnight to go. Jon could only grit his teeth and worry at Sansa’s silver handkerchief, shoulders going tenser by the hour.

…

Rhaenys left the letter on her table, moving over to the balcony where she could look over the sea from the Red Keep.

Retaking King’s Landing hadn’t been as bad as she’d expected- with the Vale knights and Tyrell forces bolstering her Dornish army, it hadn’t taken too much effort for them to starve the Lannisters and then enter the city. In a few days, her mother would crown Rhaenys, and a week after that, they would kill the Lannisters.

Before that, however, Rhaenys received a letter from Essos.

From Dany. Rhaenys had been so certain that her cousin was dead, as dead as Viserys or Aegon or her father- but she’d survived. Dany’d survived, with her mother, and they were safe in Pentos.

 _Relatively safe,_ Rhaenys allowed. After all, Dany _had_ just killed Illyrio Mopatis, and was alone, halfway across the world- but she’d hatched three dragons from Casterly Rock’s flames, and those very dragons that killed Illyrio would protect her now.

 _Come home,_ Rhaenys had written back, sending the raven quietly. _Be safe, and come back as soon as you can._

The gods had fashioned Targaryens for heartbreak, perhaps: Rhaenys knew well the taste of tears. She knew what it felt like to hear of her father’s death, of her brother’s death. She knew the ache in her jaw that came from forcing sobs back.

But Willas was a kinder husband than Aegon ever could have made, and Rhaenys now had the throne that belonged to her, and from the ashes of rebellion the Targaryen dynasty would rise, more powerful than ever before.

The gods had fashioned Targaryens for heartbreak and for grief. She had let sadness drown her for long enough, she swore to herself, now, watching the sunrise from across the ocean, streaking the sky with flame.

 _I have mourned for long enough._ Rhaenys felt the sun’s rays play across her Dornish skin, her Dornish features, and she let herself smile into the cold, cold wind. _No more._

…

They set up camp just past the White Knife.

Sansa gripped Arya’s shoulder and dragged her away, towards her tent. Gendry was already there, hunched over the maps, studying one of them.

“What’s going on?” Arya demanded, stepping away from Sansa’s grip.

“I wanted to talk to you before you left,” Sansa told her. “In private.”

“About what?”

“You told me to be careful, when I left.” Sansa clamped her hand over the opposite shoulder, feeling the flare of pain that accompanied the still-healing scar. She didn’t let herself shake. “I need you to be careful, now, Arya. You and Gendry both. You’ll be in the second wave of attackers on the South Gate, as you know; it’s going to be dangerous. Very dangerous.”

Arya frowned. “Sansa-”

“And I’m not going to be there.”

“Of course you aren’t going to be there,” Arya said incredulously. “You can’t fight!”

“No,” Sansa admitted. If she’d been a boy, if she’d ever known to use a sword, life would’ve been so much easier- but it didn’t do to think so much on possibilities. “But I _can_ climb.”

That made Arya draw short, and Gendry look up at her, a question in his eyes.

 _We will take back our land._ Sansa stepped past Arya, digging up two cloths from a small chest in the corner. _This is our right._

“Wear these,” she ordered. “Tomorrow morning, wear these under your armor. When you win, hoist these from the highest turrets. I will see it; and then I shall know that you’ve succeeded.”

“I don’t- what are these?”

“Flags,” said Sansa. “Pennants. In Stark colors.”

“How will you even see it?”

Gendry’s eyes lit up, abruptly, both amused and sharp. “There are quite a few tall trees around here,” he said. “You intend to climb one.”

It wasn’t a question, but Sansa inclined her head.

Arya ignored them, instead reaching for the cloth from Sansa’s hands, eyes widening: blue direwolves gamboled across the white background, achingly realistic. It was large, too, large enough for them to wind around their chests, once for Gendry and twice-over for Arya.

“Be safe,” Sansa told them. “Do you understand me? You must come back to me.”

Nobody said anything- Sansa knew why. Promising something that could prove impossible wasn’t any kind of a promise. Sansa felt the bite of her nails into her palm, but then she sighed, reaching forwards and brushing the hair away from Arya’s eyes.

“Try,” she whispered, and Arya stepped closer to her, wrapping her arms around Sansa’s waist, tightly.

They didn’t let go of each other for hours.

…

“They’ll be here soon.”

Tormund exhaled gustily, grinding the butt of his spear against the flagstones under his feet. “Aye,” he muttered. “We must repel them.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, and everyone around him knew it. They were among Mance’s best fighters- they had to hold the castle for the elders and children, when they crossed the Wall. It was why Mance had sent such a large force to the south in the first place. When the rest of the free folk came, they’d need a proper place to live. Tormund had first thought of attacking the Umbers, but the castle was well-fortified and even better manned.

When they heard that the Starks had all but left their ancestral home, Tormund had seized the chance. The trek south had been quick and quiet, avoiding the main roads; by the time they arrived, the castle had indeed been abandoned. It was why they hadn’t chased after the stragglers around the castle- no need to make more enemies than necessary.

“Add more men to the walls,” he ordered Toregg, and walked away.

…

The assault on the East Gate began at dusk, and continued for hours. All of them could hear the screaming and battle cries. Arya was crouching in the middle of bushes and trees, knees digging into the mud, shifting irritably through it, when she heard three long notes from a horn.

The first wave of Northerners started forwards, drawing the majority of the fire. They were heavily shielded; the exact opposite of Arya’s group. The wildlings were busy trying to shoot them down, relaxing into the relatively slower rhythm of the battle.

Arya moved, just a little, her breath sawing in and out of her chest, and unsheathed her sword quietly. Gendry, right next to her, gripped his hammers tightly. As the first wave reached the outer wall, Arya lifted her sword high, letting it reflect the flames of Winterfell’s braziers. Silently, she brought it down, and the second wave began their march.

Her own people shot out a continuous rain of arrows for the time it took them to reach the wall. The sudden change in pace startled the wildlings, and Arya burst into a jog. The wildlings would recover soon enough; they had simply assumed that the first wave had been the _only_ wave. But Arya and Gendry would seize those few moments of surprise.

Arya scaled the wall easily, quickly, and muttered an oath when she saw one of the wildlings sawing at the rope a few feet to the left of her own- Gendry’s rope. She cut his chest open, sliding into a defensive stance against the next man to come. It was sheer bedlam on the wall.

The wildlings would repel them. Arya was sure of it- there were likely a hundred wildings on the wall. The number of Northerners was a quarter that size.

Gendry landed beside her, eyes gleaming fire-red. “Where’s the tunnel?”

“That side.”

It wasn’t too far, and it was further from most of the fighting- all it took was a few steps for Arya to move towards the entrance. The stone tunnel was hidden with some clever shadow-work. Gendry stepped inside, beckoning her forwards, when she looked back.

Benfred was fending off an attack from a large, red-bearded man, and though his footwork was good enough, he couldn’t hold against the wildling’s sheer strength. They were pushing closer and closer to Arya, Benfred tripping over his own feet and trying to hold to his ground.

If she didn’t do anything, Benfred would die.

Arya swore under her breath and whirled around, taking three large strides forwards to engage the wildling and shove Benfred behind her.

She had the same problem Benfred faced: she was small, while the wildling was large. In this narrow space, she couldn’t move fast enough. Arya’s eyes narrowed as their blades met. She slipped to one knee as the man bore down against her, blades scraping in a screech of steel on steel, sparks flickering onto their boots.

“Couldn’t find enough men?” The wildling growled. “You fools are getting girls to fight your battles for you now?”

 _First lesson,_ thought Arya, staring into death, eyes wide open. _Stab them with the pointy end._

She angled her blade, abruptly, so that the man stumbled against the sudden lack of resistance. Even as he was recovering, Arya spun on her heel and shoved the tip into the back of his neck. When she looked back, Benfred was pale, panting, back against the stone wall.

Arya strode over to him and yanked him upright, shoving him towards the rest of the fighting.

“Be _careful,”_ she bit out, and ran into the tunnels without looking back.

…

They emerged on the ground level of the North Gate, and Arya jogged over to the ropes which kept the portcullis shut and the drawbridge raised. With most of the wildlings focused on the attacks in the east and south, there were only a few here.

Arya sawed at the ropes- and there, she watched the counterweights flip, the portcullis rising, the drawbridge thud to the ground. There were shocked cries from the wildlings as they saw the drawbridge fall- one of them saw Arya, standing next to the windlass, and pointed her out.

Gendry turned to her, hefting the hammer.

“Ready?” He asked.

“Yes,” she said, and, standing back to back, they met the wildlings.

…

Their area was amongst the last to stop fighting, in fact, and Arya nearly fell over when it was over. Gendry watched her stagger over to a nearby post, shoulders bracing against it.

There was blood all over their arms, splattered across their faces and hair and clothes. Gendry hadn’t imagined battle to be so dirty. He’d also never imagined _himself_ to ever be fighting in a war, but that was… beside the point.

He looked up and saw some Northern soldiers dragging the surviving wildlings into the Great Hall.

“Arya,” Gendry said hoarsely.

She looked up at him. “What?”

Gendry tipped his head to the sight. Arya muttered something, and then levered herself upright resolutely. Together, they stumbled up the steps, entering the hall quietly.

Inside was a completely different atmosphere from the outside; despite the number of bodies outside, it was still quiet- but within, the surviving wildlings were doing the best they could to fight back, or at the least die standing. It was futile, but as they watched, Gendry saw one of them rip free from two guards and try to punch them before being captured again.

It was a white-bearded man that tipped the tensed environment over, with a loud shout and a whirling attack, a wickedly curved knife in hand. The Northerners wrestled him down, getting a few shallow wounds in the process. The Tallhart boy picked up the dropped knife as the wildling glared up at him.

“You’re the leader,” he said, quietly.

Gendry could only watch helplessly as Tallhart stepped closer to the wildling, slow and threatening- if the wildling didn’t stop fighting, none of the others would, either. He had to die. But killing him with his own knife, killing him in front of his people, killing him in cold blood- it felt cruel.

“Any last words?” Tallhart asked.

The wildling worked his jaw furiously. Gendry realized what was going to happen just moments before it did- he spat, hard enough that the spittle landed on Tallhart’s cheek.

“Go fuck yourself,” he growled.

Something twisted in Tallhart’s face, and he surged forwards, catching the wildling’s collar, the knife swinging back-

_“Enough!”_

Gendry stilled, as did everyone in the hall, at the loud cry. His eyes widened when he realized who’d said it: a pale-faced Arya, standing at the raised platform, her sword still unsheathed, the blood still shining on her body. He hadn’t even realized she’d moved.

“Lord Benfred,” she said, deliberately, voice as cold as Sansa’s ever could be, eyes as hard as Jon’s ever was- “Step away from the man.”

Two emotions warred over Benfred’s face, but slowly they resolved into one. He stepped aside, and then, in the same motion, sank to his knees.

People began to whisper, but Benfred ignored them, looking up at her, head tipped back, looking up at Arya as a knight would at a lady.

“You saved me, my lady," he announced. “You saved us all, with your valor, yes; but you saved me on those battlements. And then, after, you defended the windlass from wildling attack. Without your bravery- none of us would be here.”

“I was brave,” said Arya, exhaling slowly. “But we have all been brave- including the wildlings.” She met the white-bearded man’s eyes. “What is your name?”

He yanked at his guards’ arms, fruitlessly. “I _said-”_

“I know what you said.” Arya stepped down, moving closer to him, dropping her sword behind her. “I asked you something else.”

“You want me to answer a little girl on matters of war?” The wildling asked derisively.

Arya’s head tilted, just a little, to the side; it was a tell she’d picked up from Sansa.

“You shot at my sister,” she said softly. “You almost killed her. I have just spent a month running from you with all the people who lived in this castle before you. Over the last night, I’ve killed more of you than I can remember, and I don’t _want_ to kill more of you, but I will if you push me any further. Now: _what is your name?”_

Slowly, the wildling nodded. “Tormund,” he said.

“Good,” Arya said. “You’ve lost, Tormund. Surrender, and we’ll treat you with dignity- we might even let your people go.”

“You have me pinned,” Tormund snarled. “What more do you want?”

“Tell your _people_ to stop resisting,” retorted Arya.

“If you kill us-”

“I just told you I don’t want to.” She stepped forwards, close enough that she was almost face to face with him. “Put your arms down. Don’t resist us. I swear to you, on my honor as a Northerner, on my honor as a _Stark-_ you will be safe.”

Tormund didn’t relax, not even a little; but Arya must have seen something in his face, for she nodded to the guards. They hesitated, but she waved them away. When they let him go, he rubbed at his shoulders, glaring at Arya still.

She waited, patient, her hands open and flat, face tilted up to meet his.

“Aye,” he said, finally, and turned to look at his people. “Put your arms down, boys. We’ll live to see another dawn.”

…

Once the wildlings were led away, Arya walked over to Gendry.

Or, more accurately, _wobbled_ her way over- her legs were still shaking from all the fighting, and standing against the wildlings so stiffly hadn’t done her any favors after that. But Gendry was right _there,_ waiting for her, all blue eyes and dark hair and solemnity.

“Come on,” she told him. “The guard tower- it’s the tallest one. Sansa and the others should know.”

Gendry nodded, and once they were in the privacy of the guard tower, he stepped closer, letting her lean on him, just a little. It was a long walk; but Arya powered through it, though she sank against the turret, back scraping against the stone, exhausted.

“You need to undo your breastplate,” Gendry told her.

Arya exhaled, sharply, as if annoyed, but reached for the buckles without complaint. It felt both ridiculous and jarring to feel so weak after such a harsh battle, but she couldn’t stop it. Not now. Not in the safety of Gendry’s company.

The cloth hadn’t gotten stained, because the breastplates had taken the worst of the blood and mud- it shone pale and vivid against the dark night.

She leaned against the weight of the string, pulling it with Gendry.

Watching the white flag rise above Winterfell’s walls felt like a benediction.

“We did it,” she whispered. Then, louder, delighted: “We _did_ it, Gendry!”

He grinned, and Arya turned into him, letting go of the string to wrap her arms around him. Gendry embraced her back with only the barest of pauses. “I know.”

“We took back Winterfell,” Arya mumbled into his chest. “By ourselves. I didn’t expect us to do it at all. I just- it was a _dream._ Not actually possible.”

“I was there when we ran,” Gendry reminded her.

Arya tipped her face up, looking up at him. The sun was still rising, so the light hadn’t yet caught the pennants; but the sky was light enough to give definition to the shadowed planes of Gendry’s dear face.

 _Years,_ she thought. _We’ve known each other for years._

And, with her blood running hot, with years of lingering glances between them- Arya felt a sort of madness take her over. Gendry would never actually do something, too aware of the distance between them, too aware of her bloodline- but that didn’t mean that Arya had to accept the current circumstances.

She reached up, catching his face in her hands, and dragged him down to a kiss.

Sansa would have never actually kissed him for the first time. Jon would’ve flushed and looked awkward. Robb would have done it smoothly, confidently, and never looked back. Arya only gasped, high, and angled herself to get closer to him, tasting blood and dust on Gendry and then something subtler, lying underneath it all: him.

Arya knew of no other words to describe it than _right,_ and knew of no other thing to do than fist his hair in her bloodied hands, dragging him closer.

They still had to deal with wildlings, and wait for their family to return from the south, and work to make Winterfell their home again- but, right then, for just a moment, back pressed against stone walls and arms around Gendry, Arya felt perfectly content.

…

The air was thin and cold at the treetop.

It felt almost like she was in the Vale again.

Sansa huddled closer to the trunk, the cloak heavy against her throat, and stared out into the darkness. She could see Winterfell’s fires, the bright orange light of the castle- but it was still too dark to see whether white pennants flew from the towers.

She hadn’t been able to sleep; Rickon had claimed inability to sleep as well, but past midnight his eyes had slowly shut. Sansa left him and Serena asleep in her tent and left, nodding to the sentries, Lady and Nymeria biting at her heels.

“Live,” she whispered, time and again, her hands tight against the bark.

And then, slowly, the sky lightened. Sansa watched, hands digging furrows into the tree, eyes fixed on the castle, shivering in the cold and hope fierce in her throat.

“Live,” she whispered again, and before her eyes, even as she watched, the sun lit up a banner white as a dove’s wings.

“Yes,” Sansa breathed. “Yes, yes, _yes.”_

She leapt down the tree, body curving through the motions as quick as it could. Lady yipped, Nymeria snapped, and they raced towards the camp. The guards shifted at her arrival.

“We did it!” She exclaimed. “We won!”

The guards blinked, eyes widening, and began to laugh.

…

As they were readying to leave- the majority of the camp was packed up, and some had already begun walking towards Winterfell- a rider entered.

Sansa was in the process of burping Serena, as well as trying to keep Rickon and the direwolves away from the worst of the fighting. When she heard a commotion in the middle of the camp, she frowned, and headed towards it.

“What happened?” She asked one of the women.

The woman had a hand pressed to her mouth, eyes glistening. “Prince Jon,” she whispered. “He ought to be here in a few days’ time.”

Sansa whirled around. “Is this true?” She demanded of the rider.

He bowed his head.

“Aye,” he said. “Three days’ time, my lady, to reach the White Knife. He sent out a great number of us so that we could report back the terrain- whether the land was dangerous for us or not. I will have to leave soon.”

“Oh,” Sansa breathed. She might have stumbled, had she not been holding Serena. “Oh,” she said again, trying to comprehend the relief; and then, one last time: “Oh.”

“Princess?”

She drew herself together, blinking at him. “Drink and eat something before you go,” she told him.

Rickon was there, beside her, when she turned. Sansa arched an eyebrow at him.

“Can we wait for him?”

Sansa inhaled, sharply, and drew him in for a hug, resting her chin on top of his hair.

“Yes,” she said. “We shall.”

…

Sansa was still sleeping the next morning, resting around Rickon and Serena, when she was awoken by loud shouts.

She stumbled upright, drawing a cloak around her shoulders, and left the tent to identify it. When she emerged from the shadows, she felt everything inside of her drop away.

Jon stood there, with others circling around him, slowly revealing themselves- but Jon was there, right _there,_ and he looked as he always did, shoulders broad, hair curling over them, back straight and stiff. Sansa stepped forward, once, and their eyes caught.

The rest of the world fell away.

For so long, Sansa had been afraid. She had scars, now, that hadn’t been there when she last saw him. She had fears. She had strengths.

“Jon,” said Sansa, and then they were in each other’s arms, and she felt some old burden on her shoulders fall, some ache in her chest fade.

When they pulled away, he was shaking. Sansa traced his face with the tips of her fingers, breath loud in her ears, and Jon grinned again, helplessly, brilliantly, before dragging her against him once more.

“I heard,” he rasped into her ear. “I- you raised an army. You were hurt, almost _dead-”_ He inhaled, as if he were drowning, as if he hadn’t the air needed to breathe. “I was so afraid,” he said, “I was so _afraid,_ Sansa, gods, you’ve no idea how terrified I was. And then Howland Reed told me that you raised an _army_ to take back Winterfell, and it was impossible, but-”

“We took it back,” she told him. “Arya and Gendry- they led the forces. They’re there, right now.”

“Why aren’t you with them?”

“Well,” she said, looping her arms around his neck. Rickon was jumping into Catelyn’s arms, and she could see the rest of her family celebrating, embracing each other. Sansa closed her eyes and felt Jon’s arms warm around her waist, the steady drum of his heart under her ear, his breath hot on her neck.

_A long, hard road. We’ll not falter at the end._

“Well,” said Sansa, “I thought that we’ve walked so far on this road, Jon. Don’t you think that we ought to walk the last of this road together?”

Jon ducked his head, kissing her gently. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead on hers.

“I love you,” he told her, and Sansa felt something blaze up inside of her in response, hot, flaming, unstoppable.

She smiled at him and laced her fingers through his, tight and true.

“I love you,” she replied, and kissed him again.

**FIN**


End file.
